


when dead men walk

by ellapromachos



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Angst, BAMF Ahsoka Tano, BAMF Padmé Amidala, Espionage, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala Lives, Suitless Darth Vader, fuck is a star wars swear word, gratuitous use of em dashes, my heart will go on recorder version, no beta we die like men, sheev is a manipulative crusty bastard, the canon timeline has been taken out back and shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 164,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24503008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellapromachos/pseuds/ellapromachos
Summary: Anakin hesitates just a few minutes longer, and the entire galaxy is better for it.or; Anakin is at the Temple for Order 66, but not as Darth Vader. And when Palpatine comes for him, he plays his cards just a little bit better. He digs his heels in, and prepares for the long con.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, CC-2224 | Cody & CT-7567 | Rex, CT-7567 | Rex & Ahsoka Tano, CT-7567 | Rex & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala & Ahsoka Tano, Padmé Amidala & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 992
Kudos: 965





	1. The Jedi Of Old

**Author's Note:**

> author's note: author's note: this fic is returning to regular updates on **february 19th 2021** every friday at 12:45PM MST (UTC —7:00) or 2:45EST !!
> 
> \+ [twitter](https://twitter.com/moonamidalas)
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He does not know the Jedi in front of him.

They are old, much older than him, and the passion in their eyes is noticeable even through a painting. Each Jedi holds at least one lightsaber, ranging in colour from golden to purple to blue. Their robes are stitched out of silk and gold. Anakin wracks his brain for their names, but any memory of his history lessons has left him.

The only thing that illuminates the hall is his lightsaber. He’s several hundred floors deep into the Temple at this point. Logically, Anakin knows the Temple is thousands upon thousands of years old, and most likely has just as many floors, but he’d never gone this far down before.

He’d never had a reason to.

Now, nearly a month after—after everything, the recesses of the Temple were some of the only places untouched by Sidious. He’d taken the Jedi’s home as his seat of power after the Empire rose, and when he did he’d stripped the Temple of anything even remotely connected to the Jedi. His clone troopers had spent a few weeks cleaning out the first dozen or so levels, but they hadn’t gotten this far down. Not yet.

Anakin reaches up and places a hand on the mural. He closes his eyes and reaches down into that well of power within him, and then looks outward. He’s never been particularly gifted in psychometry, but in a place as strong in the Force as this one, he doesn’t need to be.

Faint echoes of old, dead Jedi wash over him. A Devaronian master, long past his prime, spending hours upon hours painting the mural with steady hands. He knew the Jedi that had perished in the fight, and wished to immortalize them before he couldn’t remember their faces. He knows that Jedi do not fight for glory, but he also knows that their sacrifices cannot be forgotten. An Umbaran padawan, searching for the face of her master among the fallen. A knight, who had been there. And finally, Master Yoda, perhaps a little less wrinkled, placing a small green hand on the mural just as Anakin is doing now.

He lets his hand drop from the mural. Anakin swallows, and forces himself over to the other side of the mural. There are no fond memories with this side. Those who adorn this wall have violent yellow eyes, and each one carries a blood-red lightsaber.

Like the one he holds now.

Anakin shifts at the thought, uncomfortably aware of how his new lightsaber was. . . angrier in the force. More violent. The kyber crystal inside seethes, echoing with hate. There was still a faint affinity there—it had been his old crystal, after all—but its old glory is outshone by the emotions it holds.

His throat bobs. He’d bled the crystal himself, at Sidious’ guidance. The process had been painful for the crystal and for himself. Emotion was forbidden within his Order. Anakin had been used to years of shoving down his anger and hatred and fear until it tempered itself, so suddenly dragging all of those emotions to the surface had been nothing short of agony.

Down here, the air is tinged with moisture. Coruscant’s weight presses on the walls around him, and Anakin frowns. Whenever the Emperor calls him here, he makes a point to visit these buried levels. Being on the main levels is too painful. The memories there are still so fresh, and at times he can’t tell if they come from the Force or from him.

Order 66 had been horrific for all the Jedi, but Anakin is the only one who has lived to remember it.

When it started, he was still in the council chambers. Coruscant hummed below him, and even surrounded by the light of the Jedi temple, the way the Force knotted around the city was still all too noticeable.

Anakin searched the speeders below, hoping that he might see someone he knew. Someone he recognized —a Jedi, a Senator, kriff, maybe even _Ahsoka—_

He shoved that away as soon as it popped into his head. The Masters should be done with the Chancellor by now. There were four of them and one of him, and no matter how powerful a Sith lord, the Masters would take care of him. He was sure of it.

Anakin bit the side of his cheek. Every time he thought of Masters Windu, Fisto, Kolar, and Tiin, his thoughts pulled him back to Padmé. Her smile, the way her nose sloped downwards, how she laughed when he did something stupid, and how she had cried out in sheer pain, her face red as the life sapped from her.

The Force tightened around him, and Anakin tried to pick out someone familiar in the speeders. He was doing the right thing. The Chancellor was a Sith. He’d played both sides of the war.

He knew how to save Padmé.

He deserved to die.

Yes, maybe that was the case, but either way _he knew how to save Padmé_.

Anakin could save her himself. He was the most powerful of the Jedi, he was the Chosen One for Force’s sake! If anyone could cheat death, it would be him. He didn't need the Chancellor's help. 

As the sun set, it cast the entire planet in a hazy orange glow. The upper-level buildings gleamed in the light, as bright as any sun. Anakin closed his eyes, found the festering pit of worry and anger inside of him, and tried to let go of it. To release it into the Force, just as Obi-Wan had showed him ages ago.

Though he tried, that pit of anger stayed. Anakin pushed again, trying to force it out of his mind, but it stayed, as much a part of him as anything else. The Force tightened around him.

The Masters should be back by now. Anakin turned, the sound of his feet on the council floors jarring, and faced the ornate doors that led into the council chambers. He opened his mind, searching for the spiky presence of Mace Windu in the Force, and found nothing.

He jerked in surprise. Mace Windu was one of the best swordsmen in the Order (second only to him, a smug voice suggested) and surely Palpatine couldn’t’ve beaten him that easily, right? Perhaps he was just shielding his mind to the point where Anakin could not feel him. That was the only explanation, because Master Windu wouldn't have fallen to the Chancellor. 

The Force tightened around him.

Either way, the Masters could use Anakin’s help. Having another Jedi could do not harm, and he wasn’t helping anyone standing in these dusty old chambers. He moved towards the door, his brown robes billowing around him, when the Force tightened—

—and then it snapped.

Anakin doubled over. He felt the pain eating through him, just like when Dooku had severed his arm, but this time it bursted through every cell in his body. It ripped him apart, trying to destroy every defence he had ever created.

He slammed his shields up, just a second after the initial pain. Nonetheless, the full shock of the incident coursed through him. Obi-Wan. Something had to be wrong with Obi-Wan, or—sithspit, it could even be Ahsoka.

Tentatively, he lowered his shields. The same pain burned through him, but it wasn’t as intense. Anakin grasped around the edges of his consciousness, trying to find the bonds he still held with his master and padawan.

Nothing came. The Force was screaming, writhing like a half-dead animal, and in its pain he couldn’t discern anything. Even the lights of the Jedi in the Temple were burning out, one by one, as if snuffed.

Anakin’s eyes shot up. Fuck. One by one, they were all disappearing. As they did, he could feel the darkness rushing in. Chancellor Palpatine. He’d played his hand, and this was the consequence. The Jedi, taken.

He flung open the doors to the council chambers and stepped into the silver turbolift, hands flying over the control panel. As he drew closer to the Temple’s main floors, the familiar sound of blaster fire became louder and louder.

Separatists.

Of course. With Dooku dead and Grievous fighting Kenobi (because surely, he had to believe Obi-Wan was still alive, that he was just engaged in combat, because the only other alternative was—) Chancellor Palpatine was the final authority of the Separatists. Anakin unclipped his lightsaber and prepared himself for whatever he would see when the turbolift doors opened.

The Jedi in the temple could handle Separatists. There wasn’t a padawan among them that hadn’t seen service, doubly so for the knights and Masters.

They had to be okay. The turbolift doors opened with a shudder, and Anakin was met with familiar T-shaped visors and white plastoid armour. Marginally, he relaxed. Good. The clone troopers were already here, blasters raised and at the ready. A Twi’lek padawan led them, her lightsaber ignited, her robes bloody.

Then, the troopers turned on her, and she fell to the floor with a dull thud. Anakin was out of the turbolift, lightsaber at the ready, before he could really even process it. There were only three clones, and the first raised his blaster to shoot. With ease, Anakin deflected each shot back at him, and he fell. With the second trooper, he swung his lightsaber upwards in a blue arc of light, and the blaster clattered to the floor, along with the trooper’s head.

With the third one, Anakin wasn’t as fancy. A simple slash across the chest, and the trooper fell to the ground with a low grunt.

Anakin paused, the dull hum of his weapon filling his ears, as he tried to process what they’d done. What he’d done.

There must be some mistake. The clone troopers must’ve thought the padawan was with the Separatists, or that she was a battle droid. Why else would they shoot her?

A dull cough from behind him drew his attention, and Anakin deactivated his lightsaber and hurried towards the Twi'lek. Blaster bolts continued to echo through the Temple’s grand halls, though their speed was slowing. That could only be a good thing.

“Master Skywalker,” the Twi’lek coughed. Anakin knelt on the cold floor, pulling her slight figure onto his lap, and took her hand in his. She squeezed, her flesh uncomfortably hot, and dug her fingernails into his hand.

“What happened?” He asked. She grunted, blood and spittle coating her lips, and Anakin shifted slightly. “Separatists?”

“Clones.” Anakin almost flinched backwards at that, “What?”

“They betrayed us. They killed Master Dr—” she began, her voice dying out in a wet croak. Her grip faltered. “They called us traitors. They—they marched on the Temple. There were so many of them.” She swallowed, and when she looked at him Anakin froze. The dying light in her eyes was just like the light he’d seen in his own clone troopers, in his own mother, before they died too.

“I’m sorry, Master. I couldn’t—”

“No,” Anakin gave her hand a squeeze, “You did everything perfectly.”

She almost smiled, before she gave a final cough and her body went entirely rigid for a split second before going limp.

“May the force be with you,” he said, a few seconds too late. He let her body fall to the floor, lightsaber just in reach, and brushed two fingers over her open eyelids.

Troopers. Firing on the temple, killing Jedi. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. He knew the troopers. Rex, Cody, Fives, they would never do anything like this.

But of course, Fives was dead, wasn’t he? He’d spoken of a conspiracy—something about the bio-chips they all had—and Rex had sent in a report soon after. Anakin had passed it along, though he didn’t really believe it, but now. . .

Or the troopers had just betrayed them. Harboured ill will towards the Jedi since the day they were born. Anakin swallowed, and wiped his eyes. He would not cry. Not now.

He turned, and had to step over several clone and Jedi bodies to do so. The doors of the temple are wide open, and the crumpled forms of the Jedi guards can be made out next to them. The dying sunlight makes the shadows ten times longer, and in the warm light the blood on the floors looks like molten gold. The air is thick with blood, and Anakin doesn’t even try to reach into the Force out of fear.

In other halls, Anakin can hear the click of plastoid armour. More clones, still alive and killing Jedi. He ignited his lightsaber and dropped into a proper stance, waiting for them to round the corner.

When they did, their armour was lined with 501st blue, and Anakin’s heart twisted further. Their blasters jerked up, and he prepared himself for the bolts.

Each trooper—five in all—lowered their weapon. A trooper with an arrow painted down the front of his helmet stepped forward. Anakin reminded himself that he couldn’t afford to cry.

“General Skywalker, sir,” Appo inclined his head in a greeting. The low buzz of Anakin’s lightsaber filled the air.

“Who ordered this?”

“T-the Chancellor, sir.”

“Why?” Anakin kept his grip tight. They weren’t firing now, but if they were so willing to turn on the other Jedi like that, then surely they would turn on him just as easily.

“The Jedi are traitors, sir. The Chancellor has ordered us to enact Order 66. Elimination with extreme prejudice.”

“Traitors? All of them?”

“Yes, sir.”

A beat passed. Anakin tightened his grip, and spoke softly, “And me?” His question hung in the air for a moment, and the troopers shuffled. Out of habit, Anakin reached into the Force, already preparing to rip apart the Commander’s mind if need be, only to be hit with pain once again.

“You’re loyal to the Chancellor.”

Bile rose in his throat, and the only thing that kept Anakin from throwing up onto the already bloodied floors was wartime determination.

“I order you to stop firing on the Jedi,” he said, trying to mask the way his voice shook. The troopers glanced at their commander. Appo stared at the ground for a moment, before raising his blaster.

“I’m afraid we can’t do that, sir.”

The first shot was deflected easily enough. Anakin bounced one back at Appo, who grunted as the bolt punched through his armour, and Anakin’s lightsaber soon found a place in his chest. He didn’t have time to feel guilty. He pushed forward, towards the remaining four clones. Again, he reached into the Force, and again, he recoiled.

A blaster bolt singed the edge of his ear, and Anakin hissed in pain. In a few steps, he was close enough to saw the muzzle of the clone’s blaster off, and then his head. The third clone, and the fourth and fifth, died just as easily as Appo and the others.

For all the praise the Republic gave their clones, killing them was just as easy as killing droids.

Anakin breathed, and forced himself to reach into the Force again, and ignored the soul splitting agony that wrenched through him when he did. He shoved it to the side, and focused on the lights of life in the Temple. They were so few now.

A burst of heat flared through his chest, and he had to dig his fingers into his palms just to focus. Where were the lights coming from?

The pain bursting through everything dulled his senses, and he had to dig deep into the Force to be able to locate those lights. He just needed to get to the other Jedi, and then they’d figure out what to do.

A few lights spluttered out, their once luminous presences simply dying. Anakin forced himself to go deeper. Where were they? They weren’t near him, but they weren’t far either. Coming from the centre of the Temple, but not the spire.

The creche.

He slammed his shields back up, his body crying in relief as the pain receded, and took a shaky breath. He poured most of his remaining energy into just maintaining the shields, trying to keep them as strong as the Temple walls themselves but a faint thread of _fearworrypainterrorpain_ still slithered through his mind. Anakin pushed his shields higher, suffocating any vestiges of the Force still remaining, and went numb as the constant stream of emotion stopped, and he was left with his own pit of fear and hate. Something snapped in him, but Anakin didn’t have the luxury of caring.

When Anakin opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—he was pressed up against the Temple’s floors, his head whirling. His fingers were tangled in his robes, and some of the alabaster around him was broken. No matter. He pressed his hands to the stone and stood, stumbling a bit as he did. How long had it taken him to find the other Jedi? And where had they gone, again?

 _The creche_. Anakin felt a new burst of energy hit him at that. The creche housed the younglings, undoubtedly the least-trained Jedi in the entire Temple.

His robes billowed behind him as he walked, and the cool breeze coming from the Temple’s open doors whipped at the sodden strands of hair on his forehead. He just had to keep going. The creche was well-protected, but if you had asked him yesterday he would’ve said the same about the Temple itself.

He’d never visited the creche much before this, and he found himself second guessing every turn he made. Without the Force to guide him, the world was muted. He couldn’t risk opening himself back up to the Force. The Masters always said he’d felt everything too deeply. Only now did he believe them.

The way to the creche was littered with fallen Jedi, along with a few clones. A Cerean, like Ki Adi Mundi, and numerous humans. Like Cin Drallig, who lay limp and motionless on the floor. Numerous clones lay around him, but his body was still littered with blaster bolts.

Anakin stopped to shut the Master’s eyes and take his lightsaber. Master Drallig had taught him so many of the forms he knew now. If the clones were able to take the Jedi battlemaster and win, then they could kill the younglings without any semblance of effort.

Anakin quickened his pace.

The amount of Jedi—dead Jedi—grew as he neared the creche. Many of them seemed to have the same idea he did. He tried not to let it unnerve him.

By the time he reached the creche, it was night over Coruscant. Chancellor Palpatine must be looking for him by now, he thought.

He stopped in front of a pair of blaster scorched doors. The Chancellor would not have him. Not like this.

The doors opened for him, and gave him easy access to the backs of a platoon of troopers. Without thinking, without evaluating his situation—what would Obi-Wan say?—he swung at the first trooper he saw. Plastoid armour melted where it came into contact with the lightsaber. The first clone to notice him swung around, his shouts modulated by his helmet, and fired. Anakin ducked low, his senses still muted. He let his shields lower, half-expecting that undying stream of anger to flood him, but it was silent. The Force thrummed through him again, and then screamed a warning. Anakin parried a shot, and advanced on the troopers. One of them punched, and Anakin tossed his lightsaber, caught it in the other hand, and then used his mech hand to catch the trooper’s fist and crush it. He used his lightsaber to swing low and draw a diagonal line across the trooper’s chest.

He fell into the battle, almost gliding over the ground as he parried and blocked and sliced until all the troopers lay on the ground, filling the air with the smell of burnt flesh. Anakin grimaced, and turned to the other side of the creche. The doors that normally led to the younglings’ dorm rooms were closed, and explosives still waiting to be detonated were laying limp at the base of the red doors.

With a wave of his hand (and a stab of pain for him) the explosives fell away. Anakin deactivated his lightsaber, made sure to pull his hood away from his face, and opened the door.

It was painfully silent inside, and even the sound of swallowing was loud in his ears. Then, a flicker of something.

A girl, clutching a lightsaber hilt in her hand, peeked over the bed to stare at him. She probably only looked at him for a second, maybe even less, but it was like he was pulled in by a tractor beam. She ducked back down, and there were a few whispers, before a human boy stood up. He was dark-skinned, his hair cropped close to his head with the exception of a padawan braid, holding a lightsaber.

“Master Skywalker?” he asked, his voice reverent. Slowly, a few younglings rose from the beds. The same girl from earlier raised a hand, and the lights in the room flicked on. Anakin blinked. Each youngling withdrew themselves from whatever hiding spot they’d been in before this. There seemed to be about fifteen or eighteen of them, some of them as old as he was when he joined the others, and a few just old enough to hold a lightsaber. A few of the older younglings even held swaddled children.

The girl—a Pantoran— who’d turned on the lights crept up behind the male padawan. In the light, he could make out a long padawan braid in her hair as well.

“Yes,” he nodded, inclining his head to greet the padawans. The boy bowed, but the Pantoran stayed on edge, hand firmly on her lightsaber.

“We have to leave. Now.”

“The hangar is filled with clones. We checked it earlier. On our way to the creche,” the boy asked, his voice tinged with a bitter note of fear. Anakin paused.

“I can work around that. Just get the younglings to the hangar. You two, stay at the front,” he gestured to the padawans, who both nodded before brushing past him and into the main room of the creche. The younglings filtered out after them. A young Togruta girl—who looked _so much_ like Ahsoka—smiled at him as she passed.

Once they were all out, Anakin brought up the rear. He didn’t ignite his lightsaber, but he let some more of his shields fall, trying to cast his awareness out like a net. The clones were not Force-sensitive, so their signatures were weaker, but Anakin knew from years of commanding them that clones had Force signatures just like any other sentient.

They moved quickly, the Pantoran girl a few steps of her companion. He stayed closer to the younglings, and let her take the lead. Anakin smiled. They would’ve made a good team.

They just had to keep going.

Anakin bit the side of his mouth, and the metallic tang of blood grounded him. The clones will shoot at the younglings when they see them. But they won’t shoot at Anakin unless he attacks first. So if he can just distract them for a few minutes while the rest of the group creeps towards a ship, they can all leave. He doesn’t know what he’ll do after that—probably find Padmé, if she’s still alive.

Something inside him shivered at the thought of his angel, dead, in pain, all because he was too weak to go to the Chancellor, too weak to do what was needed—

When they reach the hangar a few painful minutes later, all of the younglings in tow, Anakin has forced himself to ignore that tiny little piece of him that still whispers that it’s his fault. Somehow.

He locked eyes with the human padawan, who was glancing back at him every few seconds, and jerked his chin to the left. The hangar doors were just up ahead, and Anakin didn’t need to be Force-sensitive to hear the click of the clones’ armour as they scurried around the hangar. Nonetheless, he casts his senses out to find double the amount of clones he’d envisioned (he ignores the way the Force rips through him, using him as a mere vessel for its suffering).

The boy nodded, and herded the younglings against a wall just outside the doors. They crouched down, the Pantoran girl crouching closest to the door. Anakin hurried forward, and bent down to whisper to her, “Go when I tell you to.”

After that, he strolled into the hangar, like he was meant to be there, like his entire life hadn’t just fallen apart in front of him. As expected, the clones snapped their blasters up, and a few almost fired, but they restrained themselves. Anakin took a harried breath. There were more than just a few of them. They probably numbered around three dozen, and while Anakin was skilled, there was no way he could take all of them on without more than half of the younglings dying in the crossfire.

So he switched tactics, in a move that would’ve made Obi-Wan proud.

“Troopers!” he announced, infusing his voice with all the charisma and gravitas he needed. They all turned to face him, and Anakin sauntered over to the right side of the hangar. The gazes of the clones followed him. With a pang, he noted that over half of them still bore Ahsoka’s orange and white paint.

Where was Ahsoka now? Last he’d heard, she’d captured Maul and was on route to Coruscant. But the rest of the 501st was with her, including Rex, and if they shot at her she wouldn’t have the protection of the Chancellor to stop them.

“Today,” he paused for dramatic effect, still not quite sure where he was going with this, “the war is over!”

They all let out a few whooping cheers at that. They’d assembled into thin lines, all of them facing him, their backs entirely unguarded. There was a particularly enticing troop transport at the end of the hangar. He just had to stall until the younglings could reach that, and then they could all leave. Perhaps he could find Obi-Wan.

“You have all done a great service to the Republic. The Chancellor thanks you,” he said. The Pantoran’s blue face peeked over the corner of the wall, and Anakin gave her a nearly imperceptible nod. She drew back, and returned leading a pack of younglings.

Anakin swallowed, “But your job is not over. The Separatists are backing down, but the enemies of the Republic are many.”

He’d seen enough Republic propaganda to make his own speech. Really, it was just a mash of everything he'd heard over the years. He had to draw on some of the lessons and tips Padmé had given him when he asked her how to give speeches to his troops, but that memory was too painful.

The group was moving steadily forward, each one of them crouched down close to the ground. His troopers were none the wiser.

“The great work you have done is not over.”

Over halfway there, and seemingly headed for the same troop transport he’d been eyeing up.

“We will fight for those we have lost. We will fight for a free and equal galaxy. We will fight for the Rep—”

They’re so close when a youngling who is more lekku than legs, tripped. The padawan closest to her lunged forwards and splayed his hands out, and the youngling froze for just a second. Another youngling, a Wookie, stepped forward to grab her. The padawan’s face contorted in violent pain, and he let go.

The thud echoed through the hangar. As the troops turned, Anakin leapt forward and cut down two clones in a single wide arc. The younglings were running now, both of the padawans with their lightsabers ignited and deflecting shots furiously.

Anakin reached into the Force and pulled, and each clone stumbled backwards. He felt the pain to his limbs like a shot of bacta, but pushed himself to keep going. A few clones stayed down longer than the others, and he took the opportunity to shove his lightsaber through their chests or stomachs.

The padawans had taken down a few troopers while the younglings helped each other into the transport.

Anakin fell into the familiar battledance, swirling and slashing and hacking with his lightsaber at any white-armoured limb he saw. The smell of cooked meat filled the hangar, and Anakin almost threw up for the second (third?) time that day.

The troopers filed out around him, falling into a formation he’d trained them in. Anakin met the eyes of the male padawan and only gave him a short nod. The padawan opened his mouth, stepped forward, and then paused before racing into the troop transport and helping the remaining younglings up.

Anakin turned to the troopers. They were good, but Anakin was better. His breath came hot and heavy, and his hair and robes were stuck to him by a thick layer of sweat and blood.

The engines of the transport fired up, and Anakin paused in his battle to glance at the ship. The Pantoran was standing in the open belly of the ship, her arm clutching the railing over head, white hair whipping around her face, and when she mouthed ‘thank you,’ Anakin started to cry.

When he was done with the troopers, the transport was long gone. The men he cut down were his men. They’d been entrusted to him to protect, to take care of, and now so many of them were dead by his own hand. But they had _killed_ the Jedi. Though Anakin did not feel any particular affinity for his order as a whole, they did not deserve to die. Not like this.

And Ahsoka, and Obi-Wan—where were they? Anakin let himself fall to his knees. For the first time on Coruscant, he was hot. It was like he was under Tatooine’s suns again, only this time he was being burnt alive.

Anakin steeled himself, and lowered his shields. The Force did not scream this time, but let out a low keen of pure, unadulterated pain. He ignored it, and grasped around the edges of his mind for Ahsoka or Obi-Wan, for the bonds that connected them.

When he found them, a laugh bubbled in his chest. Then, a scream. Where the bonds had once been, they were snapped. Severed cleanly, with nothing on the other end. It was like losing his arm again. Obi-Wan must’ve been with Cody, and Ahsoka with Rex, and now they were dead. Gunned down by their own commanders.

His closest friends, some of the only people he trusted, and they were dead. Along with the rest of the Jedi. And what had he even said to them before they left? Ahsoka and him had promised each other they’d catch up soon, and Obi-Wan. . . he’d been arguing with Obi-Wan about his placement on the council.

Anakin let himself slump even further down onto the floor. Other than the younglings and the padawans he’d just sent off, he might just be the last. The last fully trained Jedi Knight, the last of his once great order. Ahsoka and Obi-Wan, gone. Their little family, the little group they had formed, gone.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and pushed himself up, away from the corpses surrounding him. Padmé would know what to do. She always did. And with the Temple burning, he knew she would be worried about him.

Though he almost tripped over the bodies of the clones on his way there, Anakin settled into a speeder soon enough. He adjusted some of the systems, but only briefly, and spared a glance at the chrono.

0300.

It’d been 1800 when he left the council chambers. He hadn’t spend nine hours moving around the Temple—sure, he got a bit lost heading to the creche, but not that lost. And he hadn’t been fighting for that long.

But he could’ve spent that long immersed in the Force.

Appo had mentioned something about Order 66. Extermination with extreme prejudice. Against the Jedi, for some Force-forsaken reason. The pain he felt in the Force, that bitter, burning pain, must’ve been the result of thousands of Jedi petering out at once. And he had been on the floor when he woke up, hadn’t he?

Anakin frowned and let himself sink into the Force once again. It welcomed him, though he could tell it was still hurting. Anakin threw himself out to the edges of the planet, searching for something. Some other escaped Jedi, something to ground him.

But there was no light on Coruscant.

He almost withdrew, but Anakin stopped himself and focused on the Padmé. The Chancellor knew about her and his connections with her. If he had gotten to her, Anakin would tear him apart, Jedi Code be damned.

Padmé was nowhere to be found, the place he kept for her just as empty as those he kept for Ahsoka and Obi-Wan.

Anakin opened his eyes and placed his hands on the U-shaped wheel of the speeder, pinpointing the Chancellor’s inky black presence. She was gone. Obi-Wan was gone. Ahsoka was gone. Their child was _gone_. He was going to kill Palpatine. The code meant nothing now, not with everything like this. He didn't care what it would take, he didn't care what he had to do, because Palpatine had killed Padmé. Anakin pressed on the acceleration, hard, and tried to release his anger into the Force. 

Then, he opens his eyes, and Anakin is back in front of the mural.

The dead Jedi are staring at him now, and Anakin thinks he might be crying. He’s spent hours meditating, searching for some other Force signature that wasn’t Palpatine—Darth Sidious—and he had found nothing. Obi-Wan and Ahsoka were well and truly gone.

And Padmé had died.

Sidious had called it an attack on the Republic by the Jedi, whom he had branded traitors, and he claimed Padmé had died in the crossfire. The Republic’s greatest defender, cut down by the very people sworn to defend her.

Anakin knows it is a lie. Sidious had killed her and their child because they were a liability. The child would certainly be powerful in the Force, and Padmé had been the sharpest mind in the Republic. The people loved her, and he knew she would never stand for something like this. She would’ve become a figure to rally behind, but instead Sidious had made her a martyr.

He’d made Anakin a monster.

There’s a tap on his shields, and Anakin instinctively wraps himself in a veil of anger and hatred. The tapping continues, although it is less of a tap and more of a demand. It’s only tapping the way that the wind howling outside a door before a sandstorm is tapping, how the march of battle droids before they round the corner is tapping.

Anakin spares one last look at the mural in from of him. He’s taken on the mantle of a Sith, he’s pretending to be one of them, but when he finally plunges his lightsaber into Sidious’ chest, the man will see nothing less than a Jedi.

He turns from the mural and calls his skull-like helmet, abandoned by the turbolift, to him. He snaps it into place, and the world descends into a red haze.

* * *

The Imperial guards do not pay him any mind as he passes. They’ve come to know him. Sidious waits for him in the throne room.

He steps into the room. Tall walls reach ever upwards, and the morning air is sliced by shafts of sunlight. The Emperor is calm, staring out one of several windows. Anakin can feel the rage boiling in him. He’s always angry—he is a Sith—but never like this. Not since Order 66.

“What is thy bidding, my master?” Anakin asks, settling onto one knee. The vocoder Palpatine installed in his new suit makes his voice deeper, more robotic. He claims it’s to hide Darth Vader’s true identity (after all, he was a highly public figure during the Clone Wars) but Anakin was born a slave, and he knows shackles when he sees them.

“Ah, Lord Vader! Come,” Sidious says. Anakin rises, and joins him at the window. Imperial Centre buzzes below. It’s a knot of activity in the Force. It always has been.

Sidious is hunched beside him, but power rolls off of him in waves. “I do hope I did not disrupt you?”

“Of course not, my master.”

Sidious pauses, smacks his lips together, and turns so that he’s facing Anakin. His hands move, and Anakin represses the urge to step back. The scars he got last time Sidious was displeased are still fresh in his mind.

“What were you doing down there?”

“I believe the Jedi may have kept artifacts from the Sith Wars in the lower levels of the temple, my lord. They could be of great use to us.”

Sidious considers it for a moment, before he smiles. The old man was nearly killed in his duel with the Jedi masters—a duel Anakin should have been there for—and whenever he speaks or smiles, the discoloured flaps of skin on his face jiggle, as if melting.

“I see. I trust you will find these artifacts, Lord Vader?”

“Of course,” Anakin says, trying not to let his frustration leak through the fledgling bond they have. There are no Sith artifacts down there, but now he has to find some.

“Now, my friend. I have an assignment for you,” Sidious moves across the floor to the stairs leading to his blocky throne. He settles on the top, and presses a small button on the arm of the throne. Anakin’s chest tightens. His skin prickles. It’s only been a few weeks since Order 66. Sidious couldn’t possibly know about his ruse yet.

“An. . . assignment?”

“Yes. It appears some Jedi sympathizers have fled to Alderaan, along with Republic loyalists,” Sidious raises a chalky white hand.

“I see,” Anakin says. Bail Organa was always a staunch supporter of democracy. Anakin had only met him a few times, and they’d never spoken at length, but Padmé had mentioned the man more than a few times.

He hopes Sidious does not notice the way his heart burns when he thinks of her.

“Yes. And, to further that end, I have a gift for you.”

Anakin tenses.

“I understand your personal legion of clone troopers suffered greatly from their march on the Temple. Your commander died at a Jedi’s hand. To make up for these losses, I have gathered the best of the clones in order to reform your legion. In fact, you will be the first to command our new division of soldiers.”

Anakin waits. There has to be a catch. With Sidious, there is always a catch. The Emperor waves his hand, and two soldiers stride out from the door on the side of the room. At first glance, he might’ve thought them clones, but their armour is snow white. Gone are the T-shaped visors his troopers wore.

“The clone troopers became a symbol of the Republic. I’m sure you understand why that’s an. . . issue,” Sidious drones. Anakin only stares at these new soldiers. They haven’t spoken, so he has no way of telling whether or not they’re clones, but they stand at attention. They are not shinies—their posture is too perfect, too practiced. Anakin swallows, mouth as dry as a Tatooini summer.

He raises a gloved hand, “At ease.”

The soldiers relax, but only marginally. “Just as the Republic was reformed, so too shall the Clone troopers be reformed. These are Stormtroopers. They now comprise the entirety of the 501st.”

The stormtroopers look much like the clones, but their armour is smoother, shinier. One trooper, the one who stands slightly in front of the other, has uniform blue stripes down the front of his suit. The other has a blue pauldron on his shoulder.

“This will be your commander and one of several captains. I am sure they will serve you well.”

The stormtroopers’ fear echoes through the force. They each incline their heads, and the blue-marked one adjusts his grip on his blaster.

“Sir,” One of them says. Anakin clenches his fist. The voice that comes out is unmistakably a clone. Sidious was still using them, even after they had killed Jedi, killed—

“Thank you, my lord. I will take the _Devastator_ and depart for Alderaan at once,” Anakin turns to Sidious and bows. The old man’s face stretches into a grimace of a smile. Anakin almost runs for the exit.

As he leaves the Temple, he tries to shrug off the gaze of dead Jedi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i have no idea what im doing here, but i have a rough idea of where i want this fic to go (i think). it should be updated soon enough but unfortunately i suffer from chronic stupid and might forget about it for a couple of days
> 
> POSTED 02/06/2020


	2. To Kill An Empire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin meets with the Organas, and tries to lay the groundwork for a coup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone fetch me my clown outfit

Queen Breha carries herself with the same straight-backed grace Padmé had. In all reality, they look nothing alike, but when Anakin steps down onto the landing platform, the slightest resemblance is enough to throw him off.

“Lord Vader,” Breha curtsies stiffly, “Welcome to Alderaan.”

Her fear echoes through the Force, though it is muted. Anakin tilts his head. For her to learn that kind of shielding, she must’ve known a Jedi. To his knowledge, most monarchs didn’t ever learn how to properly shield. Perhaps the Jedi who taught her is still on the planet. With any luck, he'll be able to find them.

“Thank you,” he says. Bail steps forward. The man is much more restrained with his movements. Since the last time Anakin saw him, back on Coruscant, he seems to have aged by a few years. The stress of the Republic’s transformation has given him new wrinkles, and the bags under his eyes—which were commonplace for many Senators, no matter how much make-up they used to hide them—were deeper. 

“Lord Vader. What brings you to our planet?” Bail asks. His words are sanguine, but he’s speaking with his senatorial voice. Under his helmet, Anakin smiles. Bail is exactly the way he remembered him.

“The Emperor suspects Jedi sympathizers are hiding on Alderaan,” Anakin says. The royals pause. Their faces are stony, as is expected from two of the galaxy’s best politicians, but there’s a spike in the Force. 

Though it could just be from having loyalists on their planet, Anakin suspects that the Organas had much more to do with this. During the Republic, Bail had been a staunch supporter of some more controversial bills. Padmé had been working on a petition that sought to limit the Chancellor’s emergency powers, and Senator Organa had supported it wholeheartedly. 

If there was a loyalist in the Senate, it would be Bail Organa. 

“Of course, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Anakin says. They both shake their heads, and Anakin doesn’t need the Force to know they’re lying. 

The stormtroopers that followed him onto the landing pad shift, and their armour snaps as they do. Anakin glances at them. There’s only three of them—the commander he met in the throne room and two of his grunts—but their mere presence is stifling.

He turns back to Breha and Bail, who are both standing stiff. There is not a flicker on their faces to indicate anything nefarious, but Anakin knows them both better than they know him. They know exactly where the loyalists are, and he wouldn’t be surprised if one of them ran off to alert them to Anakin’s appearance. It’d be so much easier if he could just explain to them that he was Anakin Skywalker, that he meant them no harm, and he wanted nothing more than to see Sidious dead, but he also knows that’s far too dangerous for right now. He’ll have to find the loyalists the hard way.

Breha takes a deep breath, and her chest rises as she does. She keeps her hands clasped over her torso. “Please, before you continue your search, you should join us for a meal. I’m sure that the journey from Imperial Centre was long, and I’ve heard poor things about the ration bars they feed you.”

Anakin nods, and Breha turns. Bail sticks close to her side, and they talk in hushed tones as they lead Anakin into the palace.

He gets less than a few seconds to look at Aldera, the capital. The city is barricaded by a ridge of mountains, but the city isn’t cramped. The architecture is sleek, with tall, domed buildings lining the streets. It’s bright and silver, with patches of healthy green grass sticking out of the ground. The Force dances around the city like a child in a field. It’s happy here, much happier than Coruscant or Tatooine ever was.

The Organas lead him into the palace, and Anakin’s stormtroopers follow.The palace is designed a lot like the Jedi temple, if only a little more decadent. Large ceiling to floor windows illuminate the hallways, and he thinks the artwork dotting the walls is chosen well, though he’s not really sure. The Jedi didn’t have a class on interior decorating.

As they walk deeper into the palace, the lights flitting around the palace—servants—drift away. He doesn’t blame them. 

In his new suit, Anakin looks more machine than man. It’s bulky and black, and Sidious went as far as to install a vocoder in his helmet to distort his voice. He claims it’s to hide his identity. After all, if Emperor Palpatine was found working with a former Jedi—the group that had supposedly arranged a coup—the legitimacy of the Empire might be called into question.

It’s a convoluted lie. The suit is meant to keep him in his place. It’s unnecessarily cumbersome, and the joints don’t seem to bend properly. For Force’s sake, it has a cape. 

The helmet is no better. It’s oddly reminiscent of a human skull, with sharply cut cheekbones and deep, hollowed-out eyes.Anakin has spent upwards of two weeks just training, trying to adjust to the way the suit bends and twists, and he’s still not entirely used to it. 

He had to abandon a lot of the flourishes and spins he’d become fond of. Anakin’s particular brand of Djem So lends itself well to blunt strikes, but he’d also been using those flourishes for most of his life and leaving them behind felt wrong.

At least the lightsaber was familiar enough. The crystal came from his old one—Sidious showed him how to bleed it, and Anakin hated the experience almost as much as he hated the man, but it had been necessary. A red lightsaber is one of the most recognizable signs of the Sith, and if he tried to keep his old blue one, Sidious would’ve become overly suspicious. 

But he’d kept the hilt design relatively the same, though it was more brutish than his las one. His old hilt was tucked under his mattress onboard the _Devastator_ , as he couldn’t bring himself to leave it behind. Anakin had killed Dooku with that lightsaber, and he had every intent to kill Sidious with it as well. 

Breha pushes open two towering doors to reveal an all-too elaborate dining room. There’s enough seats to house an entire platoon of stormtroopers. White-robed guards line the walls, looking more like marble statues than people.

The Organas step down the stairs into the room. Just as Anakin reaches the bottom, Breha turns to face him, the hem of her blue dress brushing the floor as she does. She clasps her hands together.

“My apologies, my lord. I do have a few matters that must be attended to before I can join you. Bail will keep you company while I do so,” Her mouth curves upwards in an excellent imitation of a smile. Anakin nods, and gives the queen the smallest of bows.

She hurries past the seats and up one of two flights of stairs situated at the back of the room. Her tone of voice, her timing, even her hurried movements, all suggest she’s going to inform the loyalists. If Anakin was really a Sith, he’d follow her and intercept her right then and there. He’d be sure to find indisputable truth of her involvement with the loyalists.

The queen is lucky he’s not a real Sith. 

Bail moves calmly, picking a spot at the head of the table. Anakin settles into a chair opposite of him. The three stormtroopers next to him take up positions beside him, their blasters on full display. 

Both men simply stare at each other while the servants bring the food. Anakin is not sure if he’s supposed to speak first or if Bail is. 

He decides he should go first. 

“Your planet is beautiful,” Anakin says. The deep rumble of the vocoder makes the statement sound more ominous than pleasant. Bail gives him a politician’s smile—which is really just a roundabout way of saying a fake one— and Anakin can’t even be offended. If Dooku sat across from him and called Naboo beautiful, Anakin would order a full fleet of Star Destroyers to go into orbit around the planet. 

The smell of whatever Bail is serving wafts through the air, and Anakin sighs. The sound is too quiet to be picked up by his vocoder. He can’t eat. Bail will certainly recognize him, and then he’d alert the loyalists, which is just about the last thing he needs. Additionally, Sidious would be less than pleased.

“Thank you, Lord Vader,” Bail raises a piece of braised meat to his mouth and swallows, “It calms my mind to know that we are of service to the Empire.”

Not at all what Anakin meant, but he takes it nonetheless. The boredom of the stormtroopers leaks through the Force, along with their own hunger. They are clones after all, and most of them have been living on ration bars for the majority of their lives. Anakin has done the same.

Though, a few times during the war, Obi-Wan had attempted to cook. His old master was surprisingly competent at cooking—he had to be. When Anakin first arrived from Tatooine, he’d been dreadfully homesick. Obi-Wan, who was still mourning Qui-Gon, had attempted to cheer him up by finding some Tatooini recipes on the Holonet. The meals had been coupled with some half-hearted lectures about attachment, but Anakin didn’t pay much attention to those. He also didn’t tell Obi-Wan that he didn’t miss Tatooine, but rather his mother. 

Obi-Wan had made the same recipe during the war, but only once. Shortly after the mission to Zygerria, Ahsoka had been curious about Anakin’s past. Obi-Wan had apparently told her about Anakin being born a slave (which he had yelled at Obi-Wan about) and it had spiralled into her asking him about Tatooine, and whether or not it was hot (it was), and if he spoke Huttese (he did, and still does), and if he was okay after the mission (he wasn’t, but he didn’t tell her that).

She’d also asked if everything on Tatooine was that terrible, and Anakin smiled and said ‘yes.’

It was the last time Obi-Wan had cooked for them, and Anakin wishes he had thanked him. Now, he lives on ration bars and the occasional nutritional supplement. 

The hunger of the soldiers washes through the Force again. He really needs to teach them how to shield. He shifts in his spot. 

The stormtroopers are clones, and for all he cares, they can starve after what they did for the Jedi. But Obi-Wan had taught him that refusing a meal was impolite, especially in diplomatic situations, so Anakin releases his anger into the Force and raises a hand. 

“I won’t be eating, but I believe my soldiers are hungry. Do you mind?”

Bail looks up, a thin eyebrow rising in confusion, before they both rise. He wipes his mouth with a handkerchief and then smiles, “Oh no, not at all.”

The soldiers hesitate, but after a few tense seconds, all three of them step forward and awkwardly insert themselves into the chairs. After a few more seconds of hesitation, they pull off their helmets.

Anakin doesn’t look at them. 

“The Emperor is fond of Alderaan,” he says, without even really thinking. At that, Bail is genuinely surprised.

“Oh?”

“Yes. He told me about it a few years ago,” Anakin says. Sidious had told him that when Anakin was still a padawan and Sidious was still pretending to be a good person. It could’ve just been another one of his lies, but it also could’ve just been the truth. Besides, Sidious would’ve had nothing to glean from lying a teenager about his favourite planets.

“You knew him back then?” Bail asks. Anakin freezes in place. It’s a bold move on Bail’s part, and a highly intentional one at that. He wants to throttle the Viceroy. Does he not have any experience dealing with Sith? Why would he ask such an obviously leading question? He’s practically spelling out his motives.

But then Anakin realizes that there’s nothing he can say except the truth. If he’s silent, it just confirms Bail’s suspicions. So he answers truthfully. 

“I’ve known him since I was a child,” Anakin settles back into the plush chair, urging his muscles to relax. Hypothetically, if Bail was to simply discover his identity, Sidious couldn’t punish him. After all, it wasn’t Anakin’s fault. So he decides leading questions are okay.

Next to him, the stormtroopers eat clumsily. They’re not messy by any means, but they’re also not used to eating in such a restrained circumstance. Anakin watches as one of them—most likely a shiny, judging from the lack of scars or tattoos, and his regulation crew cut— nudges his brother and whispers something about a fork. 

Anakin smiles ruefully. It’s a very good thing that he doesn’t have to eat with them, as he’d probably find himself just as lost as they are. 

His eyes drift over to the commander, who is a little bit more polished than the other stormtroopers. Though he looks the exact same as the other clones, with short black hair and pale brown skin, he can instantly tell he’s at least a few years their senior. The commander has seen at least one campaign in the war, because he has an old scar that curls around his right temple, narrowly misses his eyes, and then snakes around to end just above his cheekbone. At least he has experience.

Anakin goes back to looking around the room, and then he pauses. 

Slowly, he shifts his eyes back to the commander. The clone’s face is blurred by the red lenses of Anakin’s helmet, but he knows that clone. He knows that scar. Anakin digs the fingers of his mech hand into his thigh, and tries to ignore the way the Force grows dark. His heart burns, and he bites his cheek. The pain drags him out of his thoughts—which are drifting towards an uncomfortably dark place—but the anger remains. 

He traces the line of the scar down the commander’s face. Anakin rocks backwards and digs his ankles into the still-stiff joints of his suit, trying to distract himself from the burning supernova inside of him. Of course, of course Sidious would give him the clone that killed—

A glass shatters on the table, as if someone had shot it. Anakin takes a deep breath. Something breaks in the structure of the room, and then the next glass shatters, and the next and the next. By the time Anakin has scooped up the anger inside of him and released it into the Force, the glasses on the table, along with several plates, are little more than tiny chunks. 

Bail has stopped eating, his mouth half-open, while he stares blankly at his broken glass. Anakin releases everything into the Force, but the anger ripping through him doesn’t seem to dissipate. 

The two shinies share a look, and then glance at Cody. The commander gives them a very purposeful look, one that says ‘don’t ask any questions, and don’t embarrass me,’ and they pretend not to pay attention to their broken glasses.

Sidious always was a conniving piece of shit. Giving him the clone who gunned down Obi-Wan is a masterclass in manipulation. He wants to stoke Anakin’s anger, and as much as it pains Anakin to admit, it’s working wonderfully. 

“My apologies,” Anakin says through his teeth. Bail eats another piece of braised nerf and sets down his fork. He’s handling Anakin’s outburst surprisingly well. 

“It’s nothing to apologize. We have more than enough glasses as it is,” Bail grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His expression, which was previously warm, is now cold and guarded. Bail might’ve thought of him as a potential ally before, but after that little show, he can almost watch Bail run through ways to eliminate Anakin.

He doesn’t worry about that right now. Anakin can only pay attention to Cody, who sits calmly at the table, like he’s not a traitor. Like he didn’t kill the man he served for the better part of three years. Like Obi-Wan had been anything but good to him.

Anakin turns to the two shinies. 

“Go prepare the shuttle. We’ll be departing soon,” 

They step out of their seats, pull their helmets back on, and have their blasters in hand within a few seconds. 

They give him a stiff salute and then turn away, walking in perfect sync as they head out of the room. Anakin slowly turns to Cody, who is staring straight ahead.

“That includes you, _Commander,_ ” Anakin spits the title like it’s a disease. 

Cody nods sharply, “Right away, sir.”

Anakin doesn’t even deign to pay attention to him as he leaves. Instead, he pushes himself out of his seat, and places his hands on the table.

“Now, Viceroy, I want the location of the loyalist base.”

“We don’t have anything to do with that,” Breha’s airy voice drifts through the hall, and she descends the stairs with the easy grace of a woman used to being respected. Where she was docile before, she is now booming in the Force. Her desire to protect both her home and her husband rushes through as readily as her blood. 

“Maybe not. But there are only so many places they can be. As the monarchs of Alderaan, I’m sure you have some idea of where they might be,” Anakin leans onto the table with his full weight. The vocoder distorts his voice, and every word comes out in a hiss. 

“There are a few places. We’ll transmit the information to your flagship,” Breha meets him with equal ferocity. Anakin narrows his eyes, even though he knows they can’t see it. He’s trying to help them. Why can’t they feel that?

(Because he wears the skin of a Sith, because he shattered their glasses in a childish outburst, because he looks like a nightmare given form).

The room is silent, and Breha comes up to stand next to her husband. The woman’s diminutive frame seems to be ten times larger. She is a queen, through and through.

“I’ll be expecting it,” he snaps before he leaves the room, all too aware of their bewilderment. 

* * *

By the time the _Devastator_ arrives above the base, the loyalists have had more than enough time to evacuate. Anakin ordered all of the locations Breha had given him to be scanned by probe droids before they started to go anywhere, and he had left the true base for last. It took him less than a few seconds to find it in the Force, but none of the stormtroopers knew that. 

He also had to take a few moments in his personal quarters to rip off his helmet, dig his hands into his hair, and try not to scream. Anakin kept his shields drawn tight at all times, to stop Sidious from reaching across their half-formed bond (a bond which shouldn’t even _be there_ in the first place) and discovering Anakin wasn’t as entrenched in the Dark Side as he pretended to be. 

This time, he had to close them even tighter. Despair can be utilized by the Sith, but not easily. Sidious would know if Anakin had another outburst, and while he was sure his master was pleased after the mess at dinner, something told him he would not be as partial to full-on sobbing. So Anakin had to grit his teeth, splash some water on his face—which was starting to grow deathly pale—and put the infernal helmet back on. 

He’d watched Cody give a report on the bases, resisted the urge to run the clone through with his lightsaber for what he did to Obi-Wan, and then he had stepped into the hangar.

In a rare act of kindness, Sidious commissioned a few custom black ETA-2’s for Anakin. They were nearly identical to the ship he’d flown during the battle above Coruscant, with forked wings and a wide cockpit, but Anakin had made a few modifications.

He sits in one of the ships now, waiting for the loyalist base to come into view below him. Alderaan is mostly mountainous, and Anakin can’t help but stare. While he’s been on mountainous planets before—he wasn’t _that_ sheltered—he’d never paid much attention to them. 

Tatooine didn’t have mountains. Themost it had were the badlands, where weathered pieces of rock formed meandering hills, but areas like those had always been inhabited by the Tuskens. Watto didn’t let him go to play either, though Anakin did ask. Watto had never relented, and when Anakin kept asking the slave master if he could go, Watto retaliated with a long series of whippings. 

Anakin didn’t ask again after that.

“Sir, we’re coming up on the first base,” Cody’s accented voice crackles over comms, and Anakin takes a deep breath. He can’t feel anyone else remaining on the base, except for a few rats, but it’s not like he’s checking very closely either.’

“Send out the ships,” Anakin says, and then presses on the throttle of his own ship. The ETA-2 hums to life below him, and he goes shooting out of the hangar. He grins. Up here, gravity means nothing to him. It’s just Anakin and the ship and the feeling of being drunk on freedom.

But he doesn’t get to relish it. The _Devastator_ hovers over Alderaan’s Cobaltia mountain range, and if he wants to make it to the base before any of his troops, Anakin can’t do anything fancy.

So, he draws closer to the planet and lets go of the throttle entirely. The glass surrounding the cockpit vibrates as gravity drags them closer and wind rushes up against them. He’s falling, and just after he breaks the cloud cover, Anakin pulls himself back up. 

The rest of the fleet follows him. There’s a few ETA-2s, about a dozen ARC-170s, and two troop transports carrying a full platoon of stormtroopers each. None of them match his speed, and he’s the first one to touch down on the base.

Though he’s still not entirely sure about the loyalists, they do know how to choose a base. The domed structure is tucked between two snow-capped mountains, and its pale colouring makes it blend it with the dull shades of the cliff face. The cockpit of the ETA-2 opens, and Anakin clasps his hands around the edges and lifts himself out. He steps towards the ground, and uses the Force to cushion his short descent.

Behind him, several ships touch down. The engines are painfully loud, and Anakin snorts softly. No wonder they’d never been any good at stealth missions. With engines as loud as those, the Separatists must’ve been able to hear them coming clicks away. 

The stormtroopers march towards the base in neat, uniform lines, but stop before they reach Anakin. Cody marches to the front, and waits.

“Sweep the base. Do not disturb anything. If there is any information, I want it found. Am I understood?”

There’s a loud chorus of ‘yes’s from the stormtroopers, who split into individual squads. Cody stays behind, and when Anakin turns to enter the base himself, the clone follows. 

He’s loyal, Anakin will give him that. But how much of that loyalty is just a front? How long until he turns on Anakin too?

When Cody betrayed Obi-Wan, had his master known? The pair had been close. Cody may have turned on Obi-Wan readily, but Anakin knew Obi-Wan wouldn’t have done the same. He’d been better than that. How long had Cody been planning this?

He thought back to all the times he’d met the clone, and scrutinizes every encounter, turning them around in his head as if he was looking at a broken droid, and not the man who had murdered his brother (father?). But Cody had always been the paragon of leadership, loyalty, and courage, and had hidden his true intentions well.

Sidious had chosen the commander purposefully. Anakin should’ve expected it. After all, it came from the man who had spent upwards of two decades worming his way into power until he was the ultimate authority in the galaxy. Anakin clenches his fists. If he had been smarter, if he had probed a little bit deeper, he could’ve avoided the distraction. Sidious would never just give anything something without an underlying reason. He’d given him the suit to cripple his abilities. He’d given him the ETA-2s to make him into a better weapon. He’d given him Cody to spark his anger.

He could be the bigger person. Instead of falling—the way Sidious wanted him to—Anakin could treat the commander with respect, the way he had during the war. They’d fall into some kind of dynamic soon enough (the way he had with Rex, a small voice says). Anakin would forget Obi-Wan. He’d forget the way the bond had felt when it snapped. 

Anakin sets his jaw and decides it won’t happen. For now, he’d be the better man, but when Sidious was gone, he’d deal with Cody. 

“Search this hallway,” Anakin orders, pointing to one of the base’s many offshoot. Cody nods, says something Anakin doesn’t really pay attention to, and leaves.

Anakin takes a deep, long-suffering breath, and turns to one of the other offshoots. Several stormtroopers stand in the middle of the base, around a holomap. Several others make use of abandoned datapads.

He reaches out with the Force, and heads into one of the hallways that’s free of any stormtroopers. Anakin waves open the first door he sees, and is greeted with a small bedroom. The room is tiny, and there’s a single bed pressed against both the left and right walls. Two more beds are built into the walls themselves, carved a few feet above the bottom bunks. A single dresser is pushed against the wall between the bunks. 

They’re too familiar to the barracks they use in the military. It’s either a common design choice, or one made intentionally. This particular base was built by Alderaan a few months into the war, and perhaps they’d imitated the style used by the G.A.R. for a reason. 

Anakin frowns, and closes the door. He checks the next room, and the next, but they’re both just copies of the first room. Two bunkbeds, four beds, and a single dresser.

Anakin is about to close the door on the sixth identical room, when the Force gives him a large shove. Something is different about this room. He hesitates. There’s no light in the room, and for all he knows an attacker could be waiting just inside the room. 

So he throws himself into the Force, concentrates on the room, and waits for something. A warning sign, or the slightest hint of life, but he finds nothing, so he steps inside.

Anakin keeps a hand on his lightsaber, and immediately scans every bunk for a sign of someone or something waiting for him. 

The room is just as empty as all the others, but when he thinks of leaving the Force screams at him once again. Anakin sighs, loud enough that his vocoder processes it and spits out a garbled sound. 

He runs one of his hands over the mattresses, feeling for a bump in the sheets. Maybe something hidden? 

The sheets are as flat as the mattress, and he swears under his breath. The Force wants him in here. Anakin flicks a hand, and one of the drawers slides open. Nothing. He pulls it out entirely. Nothing. He pulls out each drawer, flips it over, and inspects it. Nothing.

If he wasn’t wearing a helmet, Anakin would pinch the bridge of his nose.

He closes his eyes, shuts out the Force signatures of the clones around him, and lowers his shields slightly. In a burst of bright light, the Force floods his senses. It sings, just like it always does, but this time its song is a bit quieter. The loss of so many Jedi has taken its toll on the Force, as if someone had cut off one of its limbs. 

Anakin lifts up one of the bottom bunks, and finds a small, slightly crushed datapad. _Yes!_ Finally, Anakin had something he could use. The loyalists were far from stupid, and their communications had been heavily encrypted. Anakin had broken them, but when he did, they’d spoken in nothing but code. But a loyalist datapad would most likely carry evidence of the codes, or some other important information. 

Though he is still not entirely sure of the loyalists’ priorities, Anakin needs to have them on his side. He’d outlined a brief plan last night, while he was trying to fall asleep. Sidious is well-loved throughout the galaxy. His tenure as Chancellor is still fresh in his minds, and the supposed Jedi plot has only earned him more admiration. As the Empire grows, that opinion will inevitably change. The Republic was far from effective, but they’d kept up the pretence of democracy. Its citizens grew complacent, but Sidious has dropped that act. He’s instilled a blatant dictatorship, and once the citizens realize that, they’ll grow tense. Many will turn to the loyalists, which will most likely become the public face of rebellion. They’ll need a new leader, or a new system of government. As his apprentice, Sidious’ throne will most likely go to Anakin.

He’s not entirely opposed to the idea, but he’s not comfortable with it either. The Empire could flourish with the right person on that throne, but Anakin’s never had a head for politics. Padmé did. 

Killing Sidious will be the hard part. During the war, Anakin had watched as planets crumbled once their leaders were dead. They’d fallen to infighting, which Anakin couldn’t afford. He’d have to get the support of the military, and several senators, in order to pull this off. 

But right now, the military is made up of clones and the occasional human officer, like Admiral Yularen, and he can’t trust clones. The officers would be harder to get to, as they had been handpicked by Sidious and most likely reported to him, or some other high ranking official, but Anakin can’t trust clones.

He steps out of the bedroom, datapad in hand, and stares blankly at the clones milling around the base. Anakin tries to imagine working with them, sending them on missions, trusting them the way he had during the war. Clones, who had stormed the Temple. Clones, who had killed younglings without hesitation. Clones, who had killed his family. 

Anakin doesn’t need them. The support of the officers will be enough.

“There is nothing else here,” Anakin says, crossing the room. He steps back into the sun, and the glaring light of the sun nearly blinds him. He raises an arm to keep it out of his eyes. A particularly strong gust of wind whistles through the landing platform, and his cape whips to the side.

He's just settling into his ETA-2, datapad on his lap, when someone brushes up against his mind. Anakin snaps his shields up and reaches out to grab them, but they slip through his fingers like sand. Their mind is well-guarded, and he doesn't have the concentration he needs to break the shields. Anakin barks a command through comms, and stormtroopers come flooding out of the base like womp rats. He waits for that presence to rear its head again, or for them to do something, but they are silent.

Then, the bright roar of an engine cuts through the air, and Anakin's ETA-2 shoots up. That particular whine is horribly familiar—he's heard it thousands of times in battle.

The thin, arrow-shaped body of a Delta-7 shoots upwards, from some hidden launchpad, and Anakin presses on the throttle. 

He reaches for the pilot. Their fear buzzes through the Force, but when he tries to grab them, they duck away from them. They're too aware of their Force presence to be anything but Force-sensitive. He fires two short bolts at them, and they avoid them easily. Trained, then.

Jedi.

Anakin tightens his grip on the joystick and fires again.

It’s an easily avoidable shot, as long as one knows what to do. The pilot stutters backwards, and they curve around the shots. He fires again, and they avoid it with ease. 

He flicks the ETA-2’s foils up, and the air shrieks around him as it spins through the ship. Stormtroopers follow him in their own ARC-170’s, but none of them seem able to get a clean shot on the ship.

The Delta-7 bobs through the air, using the cloud cover to its advantage. It dips, and spins, and veers through the clouds. Anakin knows that trick, and he locks onto the pilot with unnatural precision. He fires again. 

The pilot avoids it, and then they curve upwards. His ETA-2 doesn’t respond as fast as the Delta-7, so when he goes to follow them it’s already too late. The pilot has taken up a spot behind him, and they fire off a round of shots that Anakin narrowly avoids.

Kriff. He wasn’t expecting that. 

Mentally, he chides himself for the stupid mistake. He’s out of practice after nearly two months of relative calm. 

“Cody?” He asks. The comm gives him nothing but static for a few moments. He adjusts his grip on the joystick, and waits for his commander to come in. It takes a few more seconds—all of which are filled with frantic spinning—before Cody comes in.

“Lord Vader?”

“Try and cover me.”

Anakin releases the throttle of his ship, and the ETA-2 falls backwards. Alderaan sucks the ship in, pulling it down to the surface. The Delta-7 pulls up, seemingly unaware of his position, and Anakin fires. 

The shots land, and the Delta-7 shudders with the impact. There’s a bright flare of _panic_ through the Force before the Jedi clamps down on it. It’s so brief that Anakin doesn’t really have time to process it, but he feels it all the same. 

He pulls back up just before his ship falls into the ground. The ETA-2 shoots towards the Delta-7, and the gravity of the planet plasters Anakin to the back of his seat as he does. He waits until he’s just a few meters from the Jedi’s ship, and fires again. 

That should’ve brought them down, but they dive down in a move that requires Force-gifted speed. Then, the other Jedi throttles up, taking full advantage of the Delta-7’s superior speed. Anakin pulls his own ship up, but the Jedi has a head start.

The two pronged wings of the ETA-2 pierce through the clouds like a needle through fabric. The Delta-7 is being pushed to its limits as the Jedi forces it straight up against gravity. Anakin is flattened to the back of his seat, but he keeps his ship going. He can’t afford to pull back now. 

Behind the Delta-7, the dark cloak of space appears. Anakin feels his ship rattle as he leaves the planet’s atmosphere. In the deep recesses of space, the smoke coming from the Delta-7 is all the more prominent. 

He fires again. Again, the Jedi dodges. Many of the clones have fallen back by now, and the few that still remain are painfully messy. 

The Delta-7 curves around, over their heads, and fires at one of the ships. There’s a short scream before the comms die out. The clones go out in a bright flurry of fire. Both Anakin and the other ships fire a barrage of bolts, but the Jedi weaves through them. They fly like they’re dancing. 

Anakin lets his own fighter fall back a bit, and tries to cloak himself a bit better. The two clone ships take up his spot, and he follows behind them. 

“Don’t fire,” He orders. 

“Sir?”

“They’re going somewhere. We’re going to follow them there,” Anakin relaxes his grip on the controls. As soon as the stormtroopers stop firing, the Delta-7 soars off in the direction of a nearby planet. 

He breathes, trying to stop the pounding in his chest. Anakin has never flown against Jedi before. It was so much different from fighting the drone-ships employed by the Separatists. Now, the enemy was just as responsive as he was. Fighting against them was less of an all out brawl, and more like a carefully choreographed lightsaber duel. 

Anakin sits up in his seat, and grins. The Jedi curls around towards a nearby asteroid field, and dives behind the first rock they can. Their golden ship was easily discernible amongst the grey rocks, but they weren’t going for subtlety. 

“Fall back,” he says. The two ARC-170s flying next to him drop back, but Anakin presses forward. For a pilot like him, moving through the asteroid field is as simple as breathing. He leans into the Force, delights in the strength it gives him, and twists his ship to avoid the hurling asteroids. 

Once again, a bright flare of fear rises in the Force before being smothered. The Delta-7 has stopped firing, and so has Anakin. It’s not even a dogfight anymore. It’s just a chase, and he’s winning. 

The Delta-7 twists, and their craft rotates. Ahead of him lays an asteroid with a tiny slit through the middle, just large enough for the slim arrowhead ship to pass through. Anakin tries to pull up, the Force seizing up around him, but the ship doesn’t move fast enough. He squeezes his eyes shut, prepares for the impact—

And the asteroid breaks in two.

He flits through the debris, and glances backwards to see just what happened. The dull thrum of power hums through his veins. He lashed out. He broke it. 

Anakin doesn’t have time to think about the implications of that, because now the Jedi’s destination is abundantly clear.

In the middle of the asteroid field, a scratched hyperdrive ring hangs. Anakin fires, but this time his target is not the tiny Delta-7, but rather its carrier. If they get to that ring, he’ll be done for. Sidious wouldn’t take his failure lightly, and there’d be a punishment in store. 

He grunts and leans forward. Anakin Skywalker can’t fail. He fires, and the Jedi avoids it narrowly. Their ship is still smoking from where he hit them earlier, but their desperation seems to sharpen their senses. Anakin swears. He's pushing the ETA-2 as hard as he can, but even with its modifications, it doesn't match the smaller Delta-7. 

Then, the Jedi locks into place on the ring, and they stop moving for a moment. Anakin flies in a headlong dash towards the ring. He presses his gloved fingers close to the throttle, and squeezes—

The shape of the Delta-7 seems to distort, and within a few seconds it’s gone, along with the Jedi that piloted it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW okay so just to clarify a couple of things
> 
> anakin doesn't know anything about the inhibitor chips, and from his pov the clones just randomly turned on the jedi and straight up murdered them!! so, as you would expect, he's kinda biased against clones now :(. in this case, a lot of that anger is directed at cody, because a) he's the only clone anakin interacted prior to order 66 that he's met (so far) and b) he thinks cody personally killed / ordered the death of obi-wan, so there's extra baggage there
> 
> also, last chapter i called anakin's flagship the executor, when it was an entirely different ship (the devastator) at this point in time because the executor was only built post death star. that should be fixed by now, but AO3 might take a couple minutes to update the fic
> 
> additionally, the length of the chapters should stay fixed around 6000-8000 words. i have no doubt that some of the later chapters will take upwards of 10k+, so i need some advice! would you guys like to see those chapters split into two chunks (roughly 5000 words each), or should i just publish them as super long chapters?
> 
> finally, for the update schedule of the fic! i have most of the big details outlined, so as long as i can somehow keep writing upwards of 6000 words per day, this fic should be updated every other day! that being said, i most likely won't be able to update until saturday because i have an appointment on the other side of city tomorrow, and friday is my birthday (but i also don't have school on friday, so honestly there might be an update on friday!) either way, there will be fairly frequent updates, doubly so once school is out for me
> 
> god im so sorry for this entire chapter lmao
> 
> POSTED 04/06/2020


	3. The Skeletons Of Giants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin searches for the rogue Jedi.

Sidious’ face looks even more melted on the hologram. The flickering blue light highlights every crevasse in his face. He hadn’t come out unscathed from his battle with the Masters, and Anakin doubts he could've changed the outcome. Maybe it was always meant to be like this.

“My friend,” Sidious begins, “I trust everything is going well?”

“Yes, my master. We’re heading towards a loyalist base as we speak.”

Sidious chuckles, and the sound echoes throughout the room. Anakin looks up at the man, awaiting some kind of explanation. His master’s laugh sounds more like a dying whisper, like the whir of a Separatist ship before it descends onto you. It makes his blood stop in his veins.

“I have use of your talents elsewhere. I am sure your troops can handle the loyalists themselves.”

“What?” Anakin jolts. His knees are aching, but he does not stand up. Though he doesn’t know why, Sidious expects him to kneel for most conversations. Anakin bites his tongue, and tries to collect the fear thrumming through his veins. Sidious cannot possibly know about the ruse, not this soon. He still has so much work to do. If Anakin is called back to Imperial Centre now—

“Do not worry, my friend,” Sidious says. Anakin smothers his emotions, trying to prevent them from leaking across to the other Sith, “I simply have a mission I believe you are better suited to.”

Anakin waits. There has to be some kind of condition. Sidious probably wants him to blow up a planet, or light an orphanage on fire. Something stupid and evil like that.

“One of our agents reported seeing a golden Delta-7 ship crashing onto the surface. You are to investigate it.”

Kriff. That’s an entirely different matter. The pilot he’d faced above Alderaan had to have been a Jedi, or at the very least a highly trained clone. Anakin had failed to capture them, and Sidious had been less than pleased. Anakin had to spent three hours repairing his mech arm after Sidious fried its circuits. 

“With all due respect, I do not believe we should expend our time and resources on a single starfighter,” Anakin is acutely aware of how Sidious’ wrinkled face droops, and of how his anger burns through the Force. 

“With all due respect,” Sidious mocks, “that is not your place to decide, Lord Vader.”

“The loyalists are more likely to have relevant information. I doubt the starfighter has anything more than a broken engine.”

Sidious is quiet for a few painful moments. Anakin’s knees start to ache. The Sith is quiet for a few seconds, and Anakin shifts his weight.

“You are aware of what the Jedi are capable of, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Do I need to remind you of the damage they brought upon the galaxy, of the way they treated you, Lord Vader? Do you truly believe a group like that is insignificant?”

“No, my master. But I believe the loyalists—”

Sidious tuts, and Anakin stops mid-sentence. His throat seems to dry up, and the new servos in his arm prickle. He should quit pushing now, but Anakin also knows that whatever he finds on the starfighter—and he’ll find something—will mostly likely spell death for the pilot. They’d escaped him once, but they would not be able to outfly him again, superior ship or not. And he can't exactly fail again. 

“Did you forget what the Jedi did to Senator Amidala?”

Something in the room snaps, and all of Anakin’s muscles tense. The Jedi hadn’t killed Padmé. The Jedi had no reason to. She had been kind, she had been one of the only good things left in the world, and Sidious had disposed of her like garbage. 

“I’ll refresh your memory, Lord Vader.” Sidious takes his silence as deference. The only thing keeping Anakin from throttling Sidious’ throat is the hundreds of lightyears between them. 

“The Jedi not only made an attempt on my life, but sent one of their own to assassinate Padmé Amidala. They killed her, along with her unborn child—”

_Their_ unborn child.

“—and then left her to rot.”

Anakin hadn't been at the funeral—he was busy dealing with Separatist leaders at Sidious’ whim—but he had seen holos of it. It’d been a closed casket, because Sidious claimed her body was completely maimed, but Anakin knows that if anyone had bothered to actually look at her, they wouldn’t have found a single lightsaber scar. The Jedi had no quarrel with Padmé. 

“Do you see, my friend, the dangers of the group? Do you understand why I am entrusting this mission to you?”

Anakin does not respond. He tries to let the Force sweep away his anger, but no matter how hard he tries to release it, it sticks to him like a second layer of skin. 

“Vader?”

“I understand.”

Sidious’ skin pulls back into a grimace. His teeth are shattered in some spots. Anakin stands up, looking his master in the eye, and bows. One hand on his lightsaber, he turns away from the hologram.

He’s almost out of the room entirely when Sidious calls, “Lord Vader?”

Anakin glances over his shoulder, not even bothering to actually turn his body to face him. 

“I am giving you an opportunity to rectify your past failure. Do not squander it.”

Anakin does not dare speak, his tongue suddenly too heavy to form words. The hologram flickers once, twice, and then disappears in a bright blue burst. Sidious’ suffocating presence recedes, and the room is lighter. 

He does not get to talk about Padmé like that. Sidious had used her to claw his way to power, and then he had abandoned her. After she called for a vote of no confidence in Chancellor Valorum, her use was gone.

Until they had fallen in love. Sidious had only seen Padmé as an instrument for his rise to power, never as a person. Sidious had never seen the way she laughed at trashy holodramas, or how she pressed her lips together when she worked on a bill. He doesn’t get to pretend he cared about her when he ordered her death. If Sidious had the chance, he probably would’ve killed her with his own hands. 

Anakin takes a few seconds to bundle up his anger and release it. Then, he gives himself a few more to take off his helmet, raise a hand to his mouth, and muffle the dull sobs rising in his throat.

He wishes she were here. Anakin doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s lost any allies he had as a Jedi, and the Imperials he’s surrounded with care for nothing but power. The Loyalists are no more likely to trust him than they would Sidious, and he doubts any Jedi will even come near him. 

Anakin uses the Force to pull his helmet off of the floor—a voice in his head chides him for frivolous use of the Force—and clicks it back into place. The world turns red, and Anakin tries again to force his anger to dissipate.

The doors in front of him open with a hiss. Stormtroopers mill about, but they snap to attention when he passes. His quarters are close to the bridge, and by the time Anakin reaches the command centre Cody has already pulled the ship out of hyperspace. 

“Commander. Do your men have the coordinates?”

“Yes, sir.”

Anakin’s gaze drifts down to the clones working below the bridge, in the two elongated pits in the floor. Unlike the rest of the military, their uniforms don’t seem to have changed. Aside from a few minor differences, the clones working on the bridge have the same grey uniforms. Each one has the same military buzzcut, and each one is clean-shaven.

They don’t even have tattoos.

Involuntarily, Anakin curls his lip. How is anyone supposed to tell them apart? Aside from minor scars on their faces, every single officer looks the exact same. If he squints, Anakin can make out slight differences in their facial structure, or skin tone—though he’d wager that’s not intentional on the clones’ part—but the differences are so miniscule.

He looks away from them, and out the viewport. He shouldn’t even care about them. Not after what they did. 

Hyperspace passes by in bright smears of blue and white, like a piece of flimsi a child got their hands on, and Anakin lets himself get lost in it. The clones chatter around him, and their unease echoes through the Force.

They don’t know who he is underneath the mask. No one does. At this point, he doubts many people even have any suspicions. Anakin hasn’t even been formally introduced to the public, and while the military knows him well, you’d be hard-pressed to find anything official on the holonet.

Doubly so for Anakin Skywalker. Official Republic propaganda focused mainly on the clones, never on the Jedi—which Anakin realizes was probably intentional—but the free media latched onto the generals with a fervour Anakin hadn’t ever seen before. Him and Obi-Wan became well-known throughout Republic-controlled space, Ahsoka to a lesser extent. Padmé was practically immortalized by the media, both for her ideas and for her wardrobe. 

Sidious had seen to it that most of that was wiped clean after Order 66. Having the public think of any Jedi in a positive light was unacceptable, so the Sith had rectified it. 

It makes sense, but it also means that anyone that might’ve known Anakin, even in passing, has no connection to him anymore. Anakin isn’t General Skywalker anymore, but he’s not Darth Vader either. 

He’s just Anakin.

The _Devastator_ pulls out of hyperspace above a dusty brown smear of a planet, one that Anakin’s never seen on the star charts. 

“Where are we?” Anakin turns from the viewport towards Cody, who is standing next to another stormtrooper. The commander walks forward, and Anakin’s skin itches as he draws closer. 

“Thabeska, sir. The planet is controlled by local bureaucrats.”

“Hutts?”

“No, sir. Humans.”

Anakin turns back to stare at the planet. It’s really just one giant blob of grey and brown, like most of the planets in the Outer Rim. It’s also the perfect place for a Jedi to hide. Inconspicuous, unremarkable, and utterly bland. 

“Prepare a landing shuttle.”

* * *

Thabeska is a planet of dust. Anakin can tell the second the shuttle doors open. There is grass, but it’s short and stubbly and yellow. When he steps down onto the ground to survey the clearing they landed in, a small cloud of dirt rises.

They land just outside of a small city, and he can see some of the locals peering out of their houses to look at them. No doubt, they’ve heard of the Empire. Information is sparse in the Outer Rim—he knew that well enough himself—but the fall of a Republic that had lasted eons would make its way around the galaxy quick enough.

He just isn’t sure whether or not they recognize him.

Either way, they recede back into their homes when he walks through the streets. From experience, he knows it’s easiest to get information from drunks or bartenders. Anakin scans the street for flashing lights, or for some other tell-tale sign of a bar.

The city is just as drab as the rest of the planet. Generally speaking, Outer Rim planets come in three varieties: sparkling planets with a rich cultural past, like Mandalore, Hutt-controlled cesspits of crime, like Tatooine, or planets that are little more than large rocks, like Thabeska.

Anakin raises his forearm to his helmet, and taps his comlink. Cody is still on the _Devastator_ , as Anakin didn’t want to deal with him a second longer than necessary. 

“Commander, come in,” Anakin kept his comlink a bit farther away from his mouth than he might normally. The deep vocoder amplified his voice, and if he kept his comlink at a normal distance, he’d be indecipherable.

“Yes, Lord Vader?”

“Send out probe droids, and twelve ships. Have them search the surface of the planet for a golden Delta-7.”

This’ll go much easier if he works with the stormtroopers a bit. 

“Will do, sir.”

Anakin drops his arm and stares out at the dusty street ahead of him. Every resident of Thabeska has scurried back into their houses, but he’s sure there’s still a few people drinking themselves to death at the bar.

He shuffles to face his troopers, whose white armour is already covered in dull brown, and stares for a few seconds.

“Does anyone have a map?”

It’s a terribly mundane question, and the stormtroopers, who probably expected to be doing active work, take a moment to respond. A trooper from the back pushes his way through the rest of the platoon, and holds up a hologram of the city.

“Here you are, sir,” the trooper thrusts the hologram at Anakin. There’s a bunch of Aurebesh writing hovering around the map, which Anakin doesn’t really feel like squinting at.

“Is there a bar nearby?”

“A. . . bar?”

“Yes.”

The trooper stares up at him—rather, he keeps his helmet pointed in Anakin’s general direction—for a few seconds that seem to stretch into hours.

“Uh, yes,” The trooper stutters, and then, as an afterthought, “Sir.”

Wordlessly, Anakin steps to the side. The stormtrooper looks between him, the map, and the rest of the platoon before he tentatively steps up and begins to lead the way through the town. 

Anakin takes the time to let his senses settle outwards, touching on the minds of the Thabeskians. The vast majority of them have wildly unshielded thoughts, and they leak into the Force. Petty things, like whether or not a woman’s wife will forgive her for using the last bit of caf, or whether or not a career criminal will be able to smuggle anything off world with kriffing Imps on the planet, to more serious things. One man ponders financial stability.

The trooper stops, and tucks his hologram away. He’s led the platoon to a small, worn down bar close to the core of the city. There’s a handwritten sign hanging off of the front. Anakin pushes the door open, and the man behind the counter jumps. There’s only a few patrons, and a quick dive into the Force tells them they’re all beyond drunk.

Anakin sets his shoulders back and saunters up to the bar. He’s already in the seat, both arms resting on the counter, mouth half-open to ask for a glass of whatever they have in stock, when he realizes he can’t really say that.

Then he realizes there is a whole platoon of stormtroopers that followed him into the bar. 

Normally, Anakin would walk into a bar (most likely with Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, or Rex dragging behind him), sit down, ask for a drink, and then slowly weasel his way into finding the info he needed. 

Not a single part of that will work. For starters, he can’t even order a drink. What’s he gonna do, poke a straw through his helmet and drink it that way? Secondly, none of the occupants have seen sober since before the war started. The most he’ll get out of them is a sob story.

Oh, and there’s a giant fuck-you platoon of stormtroopers following him. 

He’s frozen for a few seconds, running through eighteen different scenarios, when he settles on just pretending that this was his plan all along.

“Is-is there anything I can get you? Sir?” The girl behind the counter looks like she’s barely old enough to fly a speeder, let alone serve drinks.

“I’m looking for someone.”

She picks up a cloth and glass, and begins shakily shining it, “W-what do you mean by looking? Because, and I’m sorry to tell you this, w-we have a lot of different services, but I don’t think that kind of looking is one. Like that we offer.”

“No-no, not like that,” Anakin stutters out. What the fuck? What the fuck? Does he look like someone who’s even remotely interested in that kind of—

“A ship crashed here a few days ago. Do you know anything about that?”

The bartender is bright red, and she shines the glass with increasing intensity. Anakin waits for a response, praying that this was all worth it, when the bartender just shrugs.

“We get a lot of people coming through her. The Fardis run a couple of shipping businesses in the Outer Rim, and sometimes fresh pilots will come through, thinking they’re hot stuff, and then—” The bartender cuts herself off, and clears her throat. Somehow, her face looks even redder than before. “Uh, no. You can try asking the Fardis. They might know something.”

“I see. Thank you for your help,” Anakin says, already half-way out the door. Fuck. Hopefully the Fardis have something better than that.

* * *

The Fardis are a large clan, and every time Anakin tries to count how many children they have, the number fluctuates. Their patriarch, who introduces himself simply as ‘Fardi’, stares at Anakin. Their sitting room is not large—by Coruscanti standards, anyway—but it seems to fit the family well enough. 

Fardi reaches onto the oak table between them and lifts a small cup, “Tea?”

“No.”

The man shrugs and grabs a kettle off of the same table. He takes a torturously long time to pour, and Anakin feels horrifically out of place. They’ve covered their sitting room in various trophies from across the galaxy. Red curtains cover large windows, and every piece in the sitting room seems to have been picked intentionally. It’s not decadent by any standard, but it’s planned. 

In his dark armour, Anakin looks more like a trophy than a person. He leans forward, trying to settle into the chair. The helmet Sidious gave him makes everything harder. Collecting information of any kind was difficult when you were so obviously trying to hide something. A human face makes people comfortable. They like it when they can read the twist of your lips, or the way your eyebrows furrow. They feel like they’re in control, and it puts them at ease.

“What brings you to our home?” Fardi settles back into his chair, laying his hands in his lap. Fardi exudes confidence, though not in the oily way of many businessmen back on Coruscant—Imperial Centre, that is. 

“A ship crashed on Thabeska a few days ago. I’m looking for the pilot or the ship,” Anakin wishes he had taken the tea. Without something to grab, he’s left sitting on the couch with no where to put his arms. Normally, he might just sprawl over the couch, but that avenue isn’t open to him. Not anymore. 

“Do you know who flew it?”

Anakin blinks. He’s not entirely sure of the pilot’s identity. The more he thinks about it, the more it could’ve just been a skilled clone, or someone vaguely Force-senstitive. But then he remembers how they had flown, how they’d anticipated each of his moves, and how they had shielded like they’ve been doing it all their life. “A Jedi.”

Fardi pauses, and then his eyes slide over to Anakin. He lowers his cup. “I thought the Jedi were dead.”

“Not all of them.”

“A lot of people come through Thabeska,” Fardi shrugs, moving with languid elegance, “We run a shipping company, after all.”

“You would recognize a Jedi. Trust me.”

“How so?”

Anakin says, “The robes. The posture. The lightsaber.”

Fardi looks at the ceiling, his eyebrows scrunching together as he thinks. Anakin waits. He hasn’t felt anyone in the Force, so there’s a high chance the Jedi has probably made it off planet already. Still, it’s worth asking.

He’s not sure what he’ll do when he finds the Jedi. Killing them is out of the question. But if he brings them back to Sidious, his master will most likely turn them into something worse. If he fails again, the punishment will be worse (if that’s possible). Anakin can’t keep failing. He’d seen what Sidious had done when Dooku failed. If he dies, any hope for the Jedi will die along with him. There are other Jedi out there, but they’re so few, and the majority of them will be hunted by the Empire in the coming years.

Anakin doesn’t have to decide right now. He’ll figure that out when he finds them. _If_ he finds them.

Fardi drops his head back down to stare at him. “No Jedi here.”

He’s lying. Fardi doesn’t even bother to try to hide the deception. He’s not Force-senstive—Anakin could probably ram down any shields with a thought—but he is a good liar. This lie is blatant enough, so it’ll be easier for Fardi to slip in some more down the line. Most people don’t bother to doubt an obvious liar. 

“You’re certain?”

Fardi nods. 

“We’ll check ourselves.”

Fardi nods again. “Of course. Whatever makes your search easiest.”

“Good. You understand that we’ll have to search the shipping yards as well, then? And your own properties?”

“There are no Jedi here.”

“None that you know of,” Anakin says. He lets his shields down a bit, and tries to let some of his anger ebb out into the Force. Only Force-senstives can truly feel the emotions coming off of someone, but Anakin has found that non Force-senstives are still slightly attuned to the changes in a room. They’re not able to name it, but sometimes it’s as simple as the temperature dropping.

Fardi does not react. He’s sitting up a bit more now, his posture a bit more rigid. Anakin opens his mouth, ready to start questioning Fardi again, when a small girl waddles through one of the doorways. She can’t be very old—only about three or four—but something in her eyes makes him pause. Fardi turns, and murmurs to the girl. Her wide brown eyes only stare up at the man—either her father or her uncle—and when he gives her a small shoo, she stays. 

Fardi glances once at Anakin, and then reaches a hand out for the girl, who trundles forwards and pulls herself up onto the couch beside the man. 

“My apologies for Hedala,” Fardi laughs, “She has a mind of her own.”

Anakin isn’t really listening. In the Force, Hedala blossoms. Her mind, though young, reaches out to brush his. She’s around the age when the Temple would’ve taken her in, and for a moment Anakin pictures the girl as a Jedi youngling, training with Yoda and studying the ways of the Force.

It’s almost too painful to think of.

“Don’t worry about it,” Anakin turns away from the girl. It’s best for her that Anakin pays her no heed. The more he thinks about her, and her potential future, the more likely Sidious is to notice. While Sidious is unaware of Anakin’s intents, he does get brief glimpses of Anakin’s surface thoughts. He’s already began a campaign against Force-sensitive younglings, and Anakin doesn’t want to endanger this girl anymore than she already is.

“If the Jedi isn’t here, then do you know where their ship went?”

Hedala nestles into Fardi’s side, and fixes Anakin with bright brown eyes. Despite the lenses on his helmet, the young girl stares straight into his eyes. She shrinks, both physically and emotionally. 

Anakin keeps himself wrapped in his anger whenever he can. Sidious checks whenever he can. But Anakin hasn’t ran into any Force-sensitive since Order 66, and the girl’s instinctual fear burns through his disguise. 

He’s never been particularly good with younglings. He folds his hands in his lap and tries to emulate Plo Koon. The calm energy, the soft voice. It should be easy.

Hedala softens a bit, but Anakin doesn’t have anymore time to focus on her. Fardi stands, bringing Hedala up with him, and snaps his fingers. 

“There’s been talk of a comet landing on Thabeska a few nights ago, and I heard a scrapper talking about a ship she saw in the desert. Does that help?”

“A Delta-7?”

“Yes, yes I think that’s the one!” Fardi grins with fake exuberance. Anakin stands and reaches out to the man. Hedala pushes herself away from his outstretched palm, but Fardi clasps it. 

“It’s just on the outskirts of the city, to the northeast. My scrapper said it was half-stuck in a gave, but it should be easy to spot. There’s not a lot of gold on Thabeska.”

Fardi isn’t as good of a liar as Anakin originally thought.

“I never said it was golden, Mr. Fardi.” Anakin says. Fardi keeps smiling, but his eyes widen and the room seems to squeeze in on them. Anakin only stares, before he turns around and walks out of the room, the stormtroopers trailing behind him.

As they head down the stairs and out the door, the rest of the Fardis smile politely but try to rush away from him as soon as possible. 

Thabeska has calmed slightly, and several civilians have wandered back out onto the street. A few kids have drawn boxes in the dust, and are jumping from box to box while the other children chant. Anakin smiles. He’d played a similar game in Tatooine, back when Gardulla owned them. Anakin had taught Kitster and the other children how it went.

They pass the children, and Anakin can see the tips of their shuttle’s wings rising above the low buildings. Thabeska has a small city centre, where the Fardis live in relative comfort, and the rest of the buildings are made of brick and clay. The planet has its fair share of beggars, but the majority of the citizens look healthy and well-fed. 

That’ll only last as long as their independence does.

Bringing his ship here might’ve alerted the Empire to Thabeska’s existence, and he wouldn’t put it past Sidious to find some use for the planet after Anakin was finished here. 

He doesn’t have time to be guilty. They leave behind the last hovel on the planet, and when the stormtrooper inside the shuttle sees them approaching he lowers the ramp. 

Anakin stomps his way up the shuttle, trying to knock off the dust still clinging to his boots. The stormtroopers following him file inside and side down on thin benches lining the side of the shuttle. Anakin takes up a spot behind the pilot, where he can see both the holographic map and the landscape in front of them.

“The ship is northeast of the city. Stuck in a cave.” 

The pilot nods. They pull the shuttle up, and Anakin sways slightly. There’s the slightest twinge in the Force, but he ignores it. He can’t always follow the whim of the Force, not when he has to contend with Sidious. He’ll listen to the Force when this is all over. 

As the pilot turns, the shuttle rocks. Behind him, the stormtroopers chatter. Anakin places a hand on the pilot’s chair, and the pilot jumps a bit. 

He hasn’t even done anything—no matter how much he’s thought about—so they have no real reason to be scared. This could only be a shiny. He’d heard from Sidious that they’d slowed down stormtrooper production. He’d overheard a few of his troops talking about civilian ensigns that were popping up on some of the ships. The clone next to him might as well be the last of his brothers. 

“There,” Anakin points towards a small crevice in the ground. The tail-end of the Delta-7 sticks up from the ravine, and the pieces of the hyperdrive ring lay scattered around the clearing. The pilot brings the shuttle down.

* * *

It takes a bit of pulling on the clones’ part to get the ship out of the crevice, along with some assist from the Force, but once they have it loaded onto a transport, they bring it up to a hangar in the _Devastator_. The first thing Anakin does is order the ship to be cleaned entirely. The golden colour is only visible in a few spots, and the panels are caked with dust. 

Then, Anakin has a shower. Not one of the ones he had during the war, with sonic waves, but with actual running water. The fine layer of dust coating his skin melts off, along with some of the tension. 

Being out of the armour, even for just a few short minutes while he showers, is a blessing. The armour doesn’t do anything for him—he’d survived the war with nothing but his Jedi robes. To a certain extent, he can understand wearing the helmet, but the rest of the suit is just extraneous. He has to learn to work around it. 

Anakin steps out of the shower and wraps himself in a towel. So many of the flourishes and spins he used have already been abandoned; he can’t move fast enough to pull them off. As he pulls on his blacks—similar to what the clones wear under their armour—he wonders if he can make the suit work to his advantage. It’s threatening, meaning any conversations he has will come off as ominous no matter how hard he tries to make it seem otherwise. He can lean into that.

Anakin steps into his boots, and pulls on each piece of plated armour. It pinches his skin, and by the time he’s ready to put the helmet back on, he must be riddled with tiny purple bruises.

A few technicians are already working on the ship when Anakin reaches the hangar. They don’t seem to notice him at first, but when they do they all shut up and salute him. 

“Have you found anything yet?” he says.

“No, sir.” 

Anakin gives them a once over. Clones, again. Sidious must think it’s some kind of sick joke, to have Anakin surrounded by his family’s murderers at all times.

“Step aside. I’ll do it myself.”

His technicians swap a few looks, but when Anakin waves his hand dismissively, they scurry off like rats.

The hangar is wide and relatively empty, with the Delta-7 and two custom black ETA-2s being the only ship inside of it. The _Devastator_ is Anakin’s flagship, and the entire hangar is his. 

He smiles a bit at that. Jedi do not have possessions, he reminds himself, but he’s sure he can let that go under these circumstances.

Anakin reaches for a screwdriver, and it flies into his hand. One of the technicians left behind a rolling stool, and he sets his back onto it and then pushes himself so he’s under the ship. The helmet digs into his neck, and he tries to shift to better accommodate it. It still digs, so Anakin tugs it off and sets it down on the stool next to him. 

Fresh air hits him, and he takes a deep breath. The air is filtered, but seeing something other than his own quarters with his own eyes is so novel that he laughs. He’s not supposed to take it off unless he’s alone, but right now he doesn’t really give a shit about Sidious’ rules.

One by one, he unscrews the panels on the ship. While the top is streamlined and flat, there’s a few spots on the underside that allow access to its inner workings.

Anakin drops the panel onto the floor and looks up at the tangled mess of wire in front of him. It’s clearly been modified, like any good ship should be, and recently. 

The hum of electricity courses through the machine, and Anakin grins. He’s been an engineer longer than he’s been a Jedi, and falling back into his craft is like coming home.

(He realizes that when he thinks of home, he doesn’t think of Tatooine, or Coruscant, or even the Jedi temple.

He thinks of Padmé).

Anakin has one of his arms engulfed in the belly of the starfighter when the door buzzes open and footsteps march towards him. By his feet, he makes out a pair of feet.

“Uh, sir?”

Anakin sighs, and opens his mouth to respond. He forms the first syllable, before he realizes he still doesn’t have his helmet on, and that means he doesn’t have a vocoder. One gloved hand scrambles for his helmet, and he shoves it down until it clicks into the rest of his suit.

“Yes?”

“How, uh. . . how is it going?”

He can’t tell which clone he’s talking to, so he slides out from under the Delta-7. Cody’s painted helmet stares down at him.

“How’s it going?”

“Yes. With the ship.”

Anakin pushes himself back up. Can’t Cody just leave him alone for a few kriffing minutes? Just a moment of privacy, a moment to stop thinking about Sidious, and revenge, and his family. 

“I expect I’ll find the ship’s log soon enough.”

The Jedi might’ve wiped it, but considering how frantic they were to escape, that’s unlikely. Cody takes more than a few seconds to respond, and when he does the urge to kill him rises in Anakin.

“Do you need any help?”

“No,” Anakin spits. He knows what Cody’s help looks like. He’d rather work with a broken battle droid than a clone. Cody is still for a few moments while Anakin tries to disconnect some of the wires in the underbelly.

Where was R2-D2 when he needed him? He’d left the little blue and white astromech with Padmé that day (he was her droid after all, and Anakin didn’t think he’d need him). Sidious probably had him now.

Anakin lets his head drop back onto the stool. The door buzzes, and Anakin closes his eyes. 

“Wait.”

Cody’s presence stays still.

“I need you to get me the decompressor from the toolbox.”

The footsteps grow louder again, and pause at the toolbox—which is painfully far away—before Cody kicks a decompressor in Anakin’s general direction.

Anakin is half into the starcraft when Cody speaks again. Delta-7s had their ship logs tucked deep in the ship, to make it difficult for them to be recovered in case of capture by Separatists. It wasn’t hard, just time-consuming and uncomfortable.

“I’m Commander Cody.”

Anakin pauses, “I know.”

“We just haven’t been formally introduced. I. . . thought it would be polite.”

“I know.”

“You’re Darth Vader, right?”

Anakin cringes, and pushes some wires out of his face. “Yes.”

Cody doesn’t seem to know what to do with that. He shuffles, and Anakin throws up some extra shields. He doesn’t care what the commander is thinking, and if he has to deal with the clone’s emotions while maneuvering through the Delta-7, he’ll throw himself into the void of space.

“Did you serve in the war?”

A pause. 

(Anakin had been at its first battle, and its last. He’d watched as the Republic died, he’d watched as the Jedi turned from peacekeepers to soldiers. He’d had Jedi die in front of him, whole worlds enslaved under Separatist rule).

“Yeah. I did.”

“Me too. 212th.”

“I know.”

Cody seems genuinely surprised at that. His feet shuffle. Anakin shoves his mech hand above his head, and wiggles his shoulders to make a bit more room. He reaches for the small box containing all the ship’s logs, and then drops down back onto the stool he had. 

He can breathe now, and he has the logs.

“I—”

Anakin cuts Cody off by pushing the logs across the floor and letting them bump against the commander’s feet. Cody stops, and then reaches down to grab the box.

“Check the coordinates on the navicomputer. Find out where they were during—during the Purge. Go there.”

He thinks Cody nods, but he can’t really tell. All he knows is the commander rushes off, out of the room, and Anakin is alone again. 

Anakin sits up, stretches, and then stands. 

The hangar lights up at the ship stretches into hyperspace. He doesn’t really care where they’re going, nor how long the journey will be. 

Anakin walks towards the back of the hangar, footsteps echoing through the room. There’s a small workbench near the back of the hangar, and the datapad he collected from the loyalist base lays on top of it. 

He’d fiddled with it right after he found it. It wasn’t coded, but it was half wiped. He hadn’t had any time to actually read its contents then.

The cold metal lights up the second Anakin runs a hand over it, and blocky Aurebesh letters pop up over the screen. His fingers dance over the keyboard, and eventually Anakin settles on just reading the downloads.

_THE FOLLOWING INFORMATION WAS COMPILED FROM SEVERAL REPUBLIC DOCUMENTS RECOVERED AFTER THE PURGE._

The Purge. So that’s what the loyalists were calling it.

_THE SUMMARY IS AS FOLLOWS._

_APPROXIMATELY ONE DECADE BEFORE THE WAR BEGAN, JEDI MASTER SIFO-DYAS COMMISSIONED A CLONE ARMY TO PROTECT THE REPUBLIC SHOULD THE NEED ARISE. THIS WAS DONE WITHOUT THE APPROVAL OF THE SENATE OR THE JEDI COUNCIL._

_SIFO-DYAS WAS KILLED SHORTLY AFTER, AND THE SITH TOOK CONTROL OF THE PROJECT, WHICH EVENTUALLY GREW TO BECOME THE CLONE ARMY._

_EACH CLONE HAD A SPECIAL ORGANIC INHIBITOR CHIP IMPLANTED INTO THEIR BRAIN DURING THE THIRD STAGE OF EMBRYONIC DEVELOPMENT. KAMINOAN SCIENTISTS CLAIMED THE CHIPS WERE FOR THE BETTERMENT OF THE CLONES, TO KEEP THEM FROM BEING AS AGGRESSIVE AND INDEPENDENT AS THEIR TEMPLATE, JANGO FETT._

_THIS IS A LIE._

_THE CHIPS MAKE THE CLONES LESS INDEPENDENT BY STRIPPING THEM OFF ALL CHOICE. IT MAKES THEM FOLLOW ORDERS BLINDLY, LIKE A LAMB BEING LED TO DEATH. TO TRULY GRASP FREEDOM, THE CHIP MUST BE REMOVED._

_THE PROCEDURE IS AS FOLLOWS._

  1. _FIND A MEDICAL DROID THAT IS CAPABLE OF ADVANCED NEUROSURGERY, ALONG WITH A ROOM EQUIPPED WITH HIGH-LEVEL BRAIN SCANNERS._
  2. _GET A LEVEL FIVE ATOMIC BRAIN SCAN._
  3. _YOUR DROID WILL FIND A TUMOUR IN YOUR BRAIN. THIS IS THE INHIBITOR CHIP._
  4. _REMOVE IT._
  5. _FIND US._



Anakin set down the datapad. Smart. Very smart. 

When Fives removed his chip, it had made him aggressive and unable to follow orders. He had stormed through Kamino, locked him and Rex into a ray shield, and then died. 

If the loyalists could convince the clones to remove their chips, the Empire would loose their military. The datapad had been placed intentionally, into a room normally swept by a trooper. They would’ve found it, and they might’ve believed it. They might’ve removed their chip, and then they might’ve died.

It was a good plan. Anakin was half tempted to pass it along to his troopers. It’d be a way for him to get revenge for his family, to have the clone troops really pay for what they had done. All without getting his hands bloody. 

But he needed the backing of the military. 

If Anakin was ever to pull this off, he needed to have a strong army. One that could control the populace, keep order in the wake of Sidious’ death. He could keep the datapad for now, but not where any clone could get it.

Anakin slides open a drawer in the workbench, which is full of various metal tools, drops the datapad into it and locks it. 

He turns from the hangar, and heads towards the bridge. Eventually, he’ll see the troopers dead. But not today. Not yet.

* * *

The Delta-7 had come from a small unnamed moon, somewhere in the Mid Rim. From their position above Thabeska, it would take them upwards of a day to get there, so Cody had sent a nearby battalion to establish a presence on the moon.

While he walks, Anakin leaves deep footprints in the bright white snow. Most of the wreckage around him has been moved by the snowtroopers—who are currently standing guard at random posts around him—but some of it is too large to be moved with proper equipment.

It’s all frosted over. Wind picks up some of the snow and carries it, moving in a thin sheet just above the ground. There is no sound except for the confused beeping of Imperial probe droids.

His cape brushes the bottom of the ground as he nears the wreckage. Covered in snow, with spikes of ice hanging off of it, it hardly looks like anything to marvel at. 

The Star Destroyer lays in the ground like a long-dead giant, parts of its body strewn around as if gutted. Around it, the snow has been flattened by Imperial Walkers. Anakin can still see their tracks, though the wind is slowly covering them.

He comes to a stop just before the Star Destroyer. The thick slabs of metal that made up its floors have buckled, pieces melted. Wind whistles through the wreckage, and the Star Destroyer howls. The Force around it is tainted, thick with the oppressive power of the Dark Side.

Anakin clenches his fists. 

The wind howls in his ears, and he takes a shuddering breath. The wreckage is older than the snow, and smaller pieces have been consumed by the ice. Anything on the ground should’ve been buried, but the small weapon in front of him stares back defiantly. 

Shakily, Anakin kneels. Even through his gloves, the metal of the lightsaber is cold. He picks it up, feels its weight, and knows it is Ahsoka’s.

He does not have to look at the design to know it was hers. After she left, Anakin spent upwards of three days working on the lightsabers, his time spread out over a few weeks.

After years of battle, they’d become scratched and dented, especially on her elongated emitters. Ahsoka took care of them religiously, and Anakin told her that if she focused on the Force as much as she did her lightsabers, she’d be a knight already. Ahsoka said he sounded like Obi-Wan, and he’d laughed. 

He’d collected the parts, aligned the crystals, and even after they were complete Anakin had tinkered with them to the point of perfection. And when he had presented them to her, and she’d grinned, her pure, unfiltered joy singing through the Force, Anakin had grinned like an idiot. His sister in all but blood, the closest thing he had to a daughter, dead.

Anakin tightens his grip. From months in the snow, the lightsaber has gained a thick coat of frozen snow. Tenderly, Anakin brushes it off. Every snowflake only reveals more of the lightsaber, and he can see where she dinged it in her matchup with Maul.The switch is stuck in place with ice, but with enough pressure from him it flicks on, and the hum of her lightsaber fills his ears.

Blue. Like his own.

At his side, Anakin’s lightsaber hisses. The bright blue light of Ahsoka’s lightsaber is cleansing. Anakin is stuck staring at the lightsaber, turning it slightly and watching the way the blade—so calm, so grounding—sways.

Ahsoka wouldn’t have left it behind unless something forced her too. Anakin grasps for their bond, touching it lightly. There is no response from the other end. He reaches out, across the moon, and then further. Imperial Centre’s frenzy of activity hits him, and Alderaan’s calm waves wash over him. He can smell flowers from Naboo. Tatooine’s dust grinds at his skin. 

But he can’t feel Ahsoka. 

Anakin holds the lightsaber out to the side. Above him, a bird cries. He watches as its round body circles around him, casting a dark shadow below itself. His cape blows behind him, and the wind sends goosebumps up his back.

Morai turns around, her eyes fixing him. Ahsoka. Mortis. That bird.

Anakin is in knots. He reaches out into the Force, and instead of looking for Ahsoka, he channels his energy to focus on the lightsaber. He’s not a psychometric, but with an object inherently aligned with the Jedi, like Ahsoka’s lightsaber, he can feel something.

Confusion. Bright lights, the burn of blasters bolts as they rush past, and below that, anger, which gives way to pain. Fear—something is burning. The burn of oxygen as it rushes into tired lungs, and then nothing.

Anakin squeezes the lightsabers. Ahsoka cannot be dead. The dark side clouds everything, even this far away from Sidious. She is his sister, he was supposed to protect her. 

(Like he did on Mortis. Like he did during the bombings. Like he did from Rex).

He deactivates the lightsaber and lets his hand fall. 

Anakin searches the snow for her other lightsaber, but his eyes land on a frozen over helmet. Painted with warm orange paint, and intricately made white patterning. Frost spiderwebbing its way up the T-visor, and snow stuck in the small hollows of the suit. 

Morai calls again, and Anakin bites his tongue so hard that it begins to bleed. To not feel her is one thing, but to hold something of hers and not have her there is another. Anakin takes one last look at the Star Destroyer, and it looks back.

_Do you regret it?_

No. Anakin clips the lightsaber to his belt, next to his own. Behind the painted helmet, dozens more are propped up on sticks that look like they’re about to crack in half. His eyes skip over each and every one of the helmets, and each one calls a name to the forefront of his mind, until he lands on Jesse.

He checks again.

There is no helmet bearing tally marks. No helmet with blue jaig eyes. There is no Rex. 

He clenches his fists a bit harder, and one of the hyperdrive rings sticking out of the snow cracks. His anger rises in him, hot and heady and singing of power, of revenge. Rex does not get to betray Ahsoka and live. Rex does not get a happy ending. 

Some of the helmets snap. Anakin is shaking, his metal arm clenched so hard that the sound of metal against metal can be heard above the wind. He turns around, trying to lash out at any of the stormtroopers around him. The shuttle lifts off without another word.

He didn’t know how Rex got his hands on the Delta-7. The hangar of the Star Destroyer was crumpled, and none of the ships seemed to survive. Had he bought the ship, and then come here to remember his great victory? Remember what it was like to kill a Jedi? 

They dock on board the _Devastator_ , and Anakin is so consumed by his rage that when his comlink rings, he does not answer it. It’s Sidious, he knows—the man has probably felt him through the bond they share—but the Emperor can wait. This is more important than anything that man could possibly say. 

He storms up to the bridge, and when Cody salutes Anakin imagines what it would be like to ignite his lightsaber and run the commander through right then and there. It’d be easy. It’d be justice. Sidious would not fault him for it.

Anakin is shaking, and he has to stop himself from lashing out with the Force. It’d be so easy to crash the ship. Snap an officer’s neck. Do something, something to get this anger _out._

Instead, he opens himself to the Force, and tries to let his anger die.

“What is the status of CT-7567?” Anakin asks. Cody freezes.

“Rex?”

“Status?” Anakin yells, and the vocoder amplifies his words. Cody scrambles to one of the computers, and his fingers fly as he searches the database. It’s grunt work, not fitting for a Commander, but Anakin doesn’t fucking care anymore.

“Missing in Action, sir.”

“I want him searched for.”

“D-do you want us to deal with him, Lord Vader?”

Anakin freezes. Something ugly inside him rears its head, “No. Bring him in alive.”

He doesn’t let Cody respond, but only clutches Ahsoka’s lightsaber a bit harder while he walks towards his quarters. His master is calling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i wasn't planning on writing today bc its my birthday and my family came over (yes, our country is still on lockdown. yes, my family is being stupid) but then i just. really wanted to so here's a reverse birthday gift lmao
> 
> POSTED 05/06/2020


	4. A New Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin oversees the training of Sidious' newest acolytes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw/tw for mild torture after the second break !! nothing too major, but its around 1000 words and it does involve anakin! if you want to skip the scene, start again after the third break. there will be a summary of the scene in the end notes!!

Sidious waits for him. 

His deceptively small figure casts a long shadow over the landing platform, and Anakin has to quell the instinctual urge to run. Four Imperial guards surround Sidious, their faces obscured by their red veils. 

Their conversation on board the _Devastator_ had been swift. Anakin was still half-delirious, thinking only of Ahsoka and the man who had killed her. Sidious had been calm, almost understanding, and Anakin thought he might be off the hook. This might have just been another one of Sidious’ tests, and he had passed.

(He doesn’t think about those implications).

But when Anakin steps down the ramp, Sidious is there. His master has cloaked himself so well that he’s barely perceptible, and Anakin squints a bit to make sure it’s really him. 

He stops just in front of the Emperor, and bows deeply. The joints of the still-stiff suit bite into him, but the worst is still coming. There’s no value in complaining about something so minor when he may not be able to move his arms in a few minutes.

“Rise, Lord Vader.”

Anakin straightens to his full height. He’s taller than Sidious, but he doesn’t let that give him a false sense of security. Sidious won’t do this here. Not in front of everyone. He values his reputation too much.

Sidious raises a hand, and Anakin closes his eyes and waits for the surge of lightning, for the laughter. 

It doesn’t come. Sidious places a hand on Anakin’s shoulder and pushes him forwards, until they’re walking side by side. Anakin trails after the older man, who simply stares straight forwards, taking long strides. 

They step into the Imperial Palace. Sidious keeps a firm grip on Anakin’s shoulder. The steady marching of the guards fills the halls, and Anakin closes his eyes and thinks of anything other than this. The gleam of his first lightsaber, the triumph that came after a good battle, anything other than Sidious and his clasp on Anakin.

“Let us walk, my friend,” Sidious’ voice is even. He’s not even bothering to put on the persona he normally does when speaking to Anakin, but Sidious’ voice morphs into a low growl when he turns to the guards.

“Leave us.”

Each guard files out in unity, and both Sith are left in the hall. Sidious’ hand drops from Anakin’s shoulder.

On Tatooine, they had a saying for slaves kept unchained. The unchained slave has the least freedom of them all. Unchained slaves were symptomatic of cruel masters. Those who broke their slaves to the point where freedom was inconceivable. Masters who were confident that their slaves were past the point of no return, and could keep them unchained without worrying about escape.

He never understood that saying the way he does now.

“Tell me of your mission,” Sidious speaks conversationally, with a light cadence to his words. Anakin closes his eyes. Having to wait like this made him want to drive his head into the wall. He is constantly watching for Sidious to make his move. He expects bright blue lightning to come arcing through the air, connecting with skin and bone until Anakin is on his knees struggling to remember how to breathe.

It doesn’t come, and every time Sidious shuffles, Anakin’s entire body tenses as it prepares itself for the blow, but he forces himself to relax and says, “We located the starfighter on Thabeska. There was no pilot. I searched the logs for its previous coordinates. The last location on the ship was on an uncharted moon.”

“And the pilot?”

“There were not there, my master.”

Sidious turns his head, and though his hood is drawn up, Anakin can see two beady yellow eyes staring at him, “That is not what I was asking, Lord Vader. Who was the pilot? A Jedi?”

Anakin slows down.

“Or someone else?”

“I-I do not know.”

Sidious does not respond. The hall they move through is plain, with high, lofty ceilings, and delicately patterned floors. Nothing too decadent. Several metres above them, windows let light leak into the hall.

Imperial Centre is just outside of these walls, but you wouldn’t know that if you weren’t told. The only sound in the entire hall is the soft thump of the pair’s footsteps. 

“Take off your helmet, my friend.” 

Anakin stutters in his step, and looks down at Sidious. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to.”

Sidious raises a hand, and Anakin braces himself. But the man just gestures to their surroundings with a sweeping motion, “There is no one here but us.”

Anakin stops dead. This has to be some kind of a test. Something to try and catch Anakin.

(But Sidious can’t possibly know).

He raises his hands to his helmet, places his palms on its sides, and pulls it off. The locks disengage with a hiss, and Anakin blinks a bit to adjust to the now bright sunlight. Without the red of the helmet, Sidious looks sickly. His skin is dry and flaky, and whatever remains of his lips is chapped and red.

Anakin can’t look much better. He tries not to look too hard in the mirror, mostly because the changes in his appearance are starting to become unsettling. Anakin has grown pale, and the bags under his eyes are deep purple. Worse, his bones have started to poke out from the skin. He can see the edges of his eye sockets, and his cheeks are sunken.

If Kix was here, he’d probably give him a lecture about proper nutrition and sleep.

Sidious stares at him for a few seconds, looking over his face for some kind of hidden detail. Something dark surfaces in his eyes, like a shadow passing below the ice. 

“What did you find on the moon?”

“A crashed Star Destroyer, my lord. And evidence of a Jedi’s death.”

He has spent so long in the suit that when he speaks, Anakin clears his throat, thinking something is wrong with his voice. How long will it be until he forgets his own face, as well?

Sidious leads him into a small, open room. There is no roof, and Anakin drinks into the feeling of the sun on his skin, and the real air filling his lungs. There’s a few benches, and large, broad-leafed plants. The shade they offer is minimal, but it paints the room in patches of sunlight.

“You found lightsabers?”

“Yes,” Anakin nods. He tucks his helmet under his arm and against his side, the way the clone troopers once did. Sidious comes to a stop just in front of a small fountain, and Anakin trails after him. 

“From whom?”

Anakin presses his lips into a thin line, before he says, “Ahsoka Tano.”

Sidious does not move, before, in a dangerously low voice, he says, “I thought Ahsoka Tano left the Jedi.”

“She did. Shortly before the end of the war, we met her again. She took a company of troopers—the 332nd—to deal with the situation on Mandalore,” Anakin doesn’t look at Sidious while he speaks. There’s a bird in the palace.

Normally, there aren’t birds on Imperial Centre, period. All of the planet’s natural flora and fauna has died out, and the only animals on the planet, tookas and rats, occupy the lower levels. 

“I didn’t know that,” Sidious says. His voice balloons into a low chuckle, and Anakin shifts in his spot.

“You were on the _Invisible Hand_ , my master. We didn’t have a way to tell you.”

“Oh, I know, Lord Vader. It is not a criticism,” Sidious waves him off (and he tells himself to flinch back, to shield himself from the blow, but nothing comes). 

“And the pilot of the ship you faced on Alderaan? They were a Jedi?”

Anakin thinks back to the Force signature he’d felt back above Alderaan. Well-shielded. The more he thought about it, the more he thought he might’ve been mistaken. Shielding wasn't exclusive to Force-sensitives, and neither was being a talented pilot.

“No, my lord. I believe it may have been a clone.”

Sidious nods. He reaches out and claps Anakin on the back. Anakin’s entire body goes tense, but Sidious does not do anything. Rather simply, his master turns him away from the fountain and starts to lead him down the hall once again.

“Your abilities have grown, my friend.”

Anakin adjusts his grip on his helmet, and only processes Sidious’ words a few seconds after he says them. “They. . . have?”

Sidious grins and looks up at Anakin. His mouth curls, but his eyes remain empty and dead. Two acidic pits of anger and hate. “I felt your anger. It will serve you well, but you must learn to control it.”

Anakin has never been good at control. 

And this anger was like nothing he’d dealt with before. Not when he killed the Tusken Raiders, not when he slaughtered Count Dooku at Sidious’ behest. He hadn’t found Rex yet, and when some of his stormtroopers failed to turn up anything, he was fully prepared to slaughter them too. 

Holding him back from slaughtering Cody is even harder. Each time the man looks at him, Anakin thinks of all the ways Obi-Wan could’ve died. His commander is in reach, and if he did kill him, Sidious would not fault him for it. 

Sidious is another matter. Padmé died at his orders. But Anakin smothers that anger before it can bubble up to the surface. His anger at Rex and Cody is understandable, and though he knows Sidious feels it, his master doesn’t see it as a concern, but if he knew about Anakin’s anger towards him, he would not be so forgiving. 

“I understand, my master.”

“I believe that you will best learn when you are teaching,” Sidious looks away from him, and goes back to staring straight down the beige hallway. “You do find that you grew most when you had a Padawan, correct?”

Anakin nods. He doesn’t want to talk about Ahsoka anymore than he has to. 

“Yes, but I thought there were only two Sith. How can I have an apprentice?”

“The Dark Side of the Force is used by more than just the Sith, my friend.”

“I don’t understand.”

Sidious comes to a stop in front of Anakin, who still holds his helmet under his arm. Sidious’ beady eyes rake over his face, no doubt picking apart every little expression on it. Anakin looks down, trying to ignore him.

“We are lucky that the pilot was not a Jedi, but that failure has highlighted a great need in our Empire. Our army, no matter how strong, is not equipped to deal with Jedi. As such, I am forming the Imperial Inquisition. They are all former Jedi, like yourself. Strong with the Dark side of the Force.”

Anakin’s face snaps back up to look at Sidious. 

“They are very few in number right now, but I trust the man leading the project. My Inquisitors will be able to eradicate any remaining Jedi. You will be able to focus on more immediate, more pressing matters.”

There is a hunger in his master. It burns red-hot, giving life to his dead eyes. It’s the first time Anakin has seen him looking like anything other than half-dead since Order 66. Sidious sees something on Anakin’s face shift, or he just catches himself, but just as quickly as that light sparked, it’s smothered. 

“However, you are my apprentice. I have not been able to visit the Inquisitor myself, nor see his progress, so I am asking you, my friend, to check up on him yourself. Ensure that the Inquisitors are up to my standards. If they are not, get them there,” Sidious says. Anakin nods, albeit hesitantly, and lifts his helmet once again. Sidious clasps his shoulders, and smiles.

“Do not let me down, my friend.”

As Sidious lets go, a ghost of lightning cracks through Anakin, sharp as any whip. 

* * *

Turns out, the Inquisitorius Headquarters is housed in a large, brutally-designed, black monolith. Its exterior looks as if it’s been built from blocks. The Grand Inquisitor, dressed in black, blends into his building.

Anakin meets him outside of the building. The Grand Inquisitor draws himself up as Anakin grows close. Anakin has no stormtroopers with him this time.

“Lord Vader!” The Grand Inquisitor warbles. He’s dressed in well-fitting, battle ready clothes, and Anakin looks him up and down. Sidious had said that all Inquisitors were once Jedi, but he hadn’t said whether or not that included the Grand Inquisitor.

“I assume you’re the Grand Inquisitor?” Anakin doesn’t stop walking when he reaches the Inquisitor, and the Pau’an has to spin on his heels in order to walk to his side.

“I am, my lord.”

He’s not familiar to Anakin. Though, it’s entirely possible that Anakin forgot about him. Over his years in the Order, he’d met countless Jedi. This Pau’an could be one of them. 

“The Emperor tells me that you’ve trained your Inquisitors to hunt down Jedi,” Anakin watches the Pau’an closely, searching for some kind of reaction. 

The Inquisitors are going to present a challenge. Dark-side adepts, who have been specifically trained to hunt down and kill Jedi. With the loss of Anakin’s strongest allies, he’ll need to rearrange everything. Next to Sidious, the Inquisitors might just be his most powerful enemies.

Or his best assets.

The Inquisitor grins a bit at that. His teeth are slightly yellow. “Yes. The Emperor has picked me to lead the Imperial Inquisition. Though, we will fall under your leadership.”

“I see.”

Two Imperial guards, their pikes crossed over the entrance, part as the pair approach. As soon as Anakin and the Inquisitor pass the threshold, they step back to cover it. 

Much like its exterior, the inside of the building is dreary and black. Imperial sigils line the walls, and bright lights overhead make the building feel like it comes from a fever dream. 

“How did you find the Inquisitors?” Anakin says, turning his head a bit to look at the Grand Inquisitor. As a Pau’an, the Inquisitor is slightly taller than Anakin. His pronounced brow leads into a domed forehead, which wrinkles slightly as the Inquisitor raises his eyebrows—or, the markings where his eyebrows would be—when Anakin asks the question. It’s only a split-second expression, and when Anakin blinks the Inquisitor’s face is as serene as a pool of water.

“Jedi padawans. They came back to their Temple after the distress signal went out.”

“The what?”

The Grand Inquisitor stops, and Anakin with him. He keeps his hands clasped behind him as, in a patronizing tone, he asks, “Do you not know?”

“Know what?”

“During the attack, the Jedi Distress Beacon was activated. To draw the Jedi back.”

Anakin clamped down on his emotions before he even really felt them. It was the kind of thing Anakin would’ve done to draw in Separatists during the war, without thinking twice. Then it had been used on the Jedi.

“And it worked?”

“Yes. Quite a few stragglers were eliminated. Well, until it got deactivated,” The Inquisitor’s eyes darken a bit at that. Anakin stands there, entirely still, and entirely calm in the Force.

To have the Jedi lured like that, like animals, was almost impossible to believe. They were better than that, they had to be. 

Or, really, Obi-Wan and Ahsoka were better than that. Anakin thinks back to the other Jedi he’d worked with during the war, imagines them returning to the Temple, only to be ambushed by clone troopers. They would try to fend them off, but their efforts would be pointless. Shot full of blaster bolts, and then disposed of.

He could believe that. 

“Did you not know?” The Inquisitor asks, voice sweet. Anakin starts walking again. Of course he didn’t know. It wasn’t like he’d asked Sidious about the details of Order 66—even if he did, it wasn’t like Sidious would’ve told him anything. Sidious had skirted around the topic for the past few months, only ever mentioning it as Order 66, nothing more.

“I have more important things to do than obsess about minutiae,” Anakin snaps. He doesn’t know where that came from, but he doesn’t really care. They’ve reached the end of the hall the Grand Inquisitor has led him down. The doors open with a wave from the other man. The Pau’an steps forward, and for the first time Anakin gets a glimpse at the lightsaber hilt on his back.

At least he thinks it’s a lightsaber. The hilt is deep black—like everything else about the Inquisitors—and is surrounded by a flat circle. It attaches to the lightsaber at both of its emitters. Anakin frowns. He’s seem some unorthodox lightsabers before, but nothing like this. The seemingly ornamental circle limits the grip, and seems like it would just get in the way during combat. It’s flashy, but at what price?

The Inquisitor stops in front of a large transperisteel wall, which overlooks a training dojo. Anakin comes up beside him, and stretches out into the Force. The energy radiating off of the Inquisitor is harsh, unforgiving. Much like Sidious, he is calm, yet powerful in the Force. 

The two Inquisitors below are anything but. 

Their energies thrash out, wildly oscillating from dull to brilliant. Both are dressed in simple black uniforms, similar to what the Grand Inquisitor wears. They do not fight yet, but they have their hands on their lightsabers and are circling each other like warring krayt dragons.

“This is First Sister,” the Inquisitor points to a Zabrak female with bright red skin and short black hair. “She inspired the Imperial Inquisition’s formation.”

He does not know the Zabrak. She is too young, too brash, to be anything but a padawan. Anakin shifts his gaze to her opponent, a green-skinned Twi’lek. No one he knows, either. 

“That is our newest acquisition. He is skilled in the ways of the Dark side, but his bladework is lacking,” The Inquisitor curls his lip when he speaks of the Twi’lek. Then, he raises an ashen hand. The transperisteel shimmers. A sign for the Inquisitors to start.

The Twi’lek looks towards the Inquisitor, and First Sister takes her chance. She springs forward, igniting her double-bladed lightsaber. Her opponent notices at the last second, and stumbles backwards. He ignites his lightsaber, but only uses one blade.

First Sister swings low. Instead of jumping, the Twi’lek uses his blade to block it. He has to twist his arms and torso to parry on time, and First Sister uses the other end of her lightsaber to land a hit on the side.

Howling, the Twi’lek grasps his lightsaber with both hands and raises it above his head. First Sister catches his blade, pushes it off, and kicks him. The Twi’lek goes flying, slamming into one of the Imperial banners on the wall. His sides heave, and he shakes when he tries to pull himself up. Anakin frowns. 

Swinging her lightsaber, First Sister moves towards him. Her anger washes off of her in waves. She does not bother with shielding. 

First Sister raises her lightsaber to strike again, but the Twi’lek raises his hand and yanks. One of the dotted panels on the opposite wall comes careening towards both of them, and First Sister bends her wrist, drops low, and cuts the panel in half just a second too late. 

While she's still slightly turned from cutting the panel, her opponent swings wildly at her. A single blow lands on her leg, and First Sister screeches. Pain ripples through the Force, swallowed by yet another tidal wave of anger. The Zabrak falls to the ground, and once again, the Twi’lek swings his lightsaber at her.

There is no real form, no reason to his moves. He’s lashing out because he doesn't know what else to do, and it shows. The Grand Inquisitor had been generous. The Twi’lek fights like a Jedi youngling.

“Where did you find that one?”

“Captured trying to outrun Imperial forces on Corellia.”

“And he was a Jedi?”

“Yes.”

Anakin bites his tongue, and refrains from asking, ‘are you sure?’, because the Twi’lek fights unlike any self-respecting Jedi Anakin has ever seen. Most likely, he was a padawan, shoved into service during the heyday of the war. The Zabrak has potential, but her late reaction to the panel is an issue. If Anakin needs allies, he won’t find them here.

“Are all of your Inquisitors going to be Jedi?” Anakin asks. He knows these two are Jedi—the Grand Inquisitor confirmed that already—but having a full fighting force of Jedi is a bit more ambitious. It limits his allies, and gives him more enemies. If he can show Sidious how unnecessary the Inquisitors are, he’ll have a lot more to work with. 

(It also means he’d have to kill Jedi himself, and while Anakin is more than willing to kill clones—Rex comes to mind almost immediately, and he has to stop himself from breaking the transperisteel—Jedi are another matter altogether. They were not kind, and he would’ve left the Order if he wasn’t tied down by his duties, but killing a Jedi seems. . . wrong).

“Of course,” The Grand Inquisitor replies, as if nothing is wrong. He carries himself like a preened bird, chest puffed out and chin held high.

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Anakin says. He’s not quite sure what he’s doing. He’d watched Padmé do something like this a thousand times during her meetings with other Senators, but it’d always been so subtle when she did it. Now, it was anything but. 

“Why wouldn’t it be? Jedi are already trained, already skilled in the ways of the Force. And their restrictive doctrine leaves them emotionally stunted. If there ever is a perfect counter for the Jedi, these Inquisitors are it.”

“They are trained to hunt down Jedi, yes?”

The Grand Inquisitor fixes him with a harsh look, and Anakin holds it. Then, the Inquisitor nods. 

“And what will happen when they come across a Jedi they know? Someone who trained them? Someone they trained with? Do you really think they’ll follow your orders then?”

The Inquisitor does not respond.

“And what about you? You’re going to give them lightsabers and let them roam free, after the Empire took everything from them. What then, Grand Inquisitor?”

For a few seconds, the Grand Inquisitor’s emotions blaze through the air around them. Shame, anger, and a deep hatred slowly forming.

“Though, I don’t think we’ll have to worry about anything with Inquisitors like these,”

He half-expects the Grand Inquisitor to snap at that, but instead the Pau’an presses his lips together and then smiles. 

“I don’t think your tour is over yet, Lord Vader.”

* * *

The Grand Inquisitor leads him into a large room. Clone troopers line a metal walkway that leads to a blocky, large chair. A woman is strapped into it, and her head lolls around on her neck like a ball tied to a string. 

“Since you are unsatisfied with our current Inquisitors, perhaps you could help us find new ones, Lord Vader.”

The woman on the table does not move, but her awareness is apparent in the Force. Her hair is braided into several tiny strands, matted with sweat. Her skin is light-brown, but in the harsh light of the room it’s washed several shades lighter. 

“This is Jedi Knight Cere Junda,” the Grand Inquisitor says, standing just behind Anakin. “She knows where her padawan and several younglings are hiding. We’ve been trying to get the information out of her for days, but our methods don’t seem to be working. Perhaps you can try, Lord Vader, and then show us what we are doing wrong?”

Anakin is silent. He knows Cere Junda. Not on a personal level, but when he first became a padawan, he’d gotten lost in the archives. Cere—at that point a young Jedi Knight—had found him and led him back to Obi-Wan.

She, in all likelihood, doesn’t remember him. But for Anakin, it was one of the first signs of kindness in his new world.

“I’ll leave you two alone, then.”

Anakin stares at Cere a bit more. One by one, the clone troopers file out, and they are left alone. To his right, there is a lever connected to the chair by a thick wire. Two rectangular pads hang on hinges from the chair, and Anakin’s skin crackles.

He knows what it’s like to be electrocuted. It’d happened often enough in the war, and more than often with Sidious. Electrocution numbs every cell in your body, and the second it stops you are painfully aware of every sensation, including the pain. He’s electrocuted Seppies before, or people who deserved it, but the thing is, Cere doesn’t deserve it.

Anakin straightens, tries to play the part of an intimidating Sith lord, and lets a bit of his anger leak out into the air. Cere shivers slightly, and her posture firms up. She's retained her dignity.

“You do not want this.”

Cere closes her eyes, and lifts her head. “I am not giving up the location of my padawan.”

“You will, eventually. The pain you’ll go through won’t mean anything in the end. Tell me, and it’ll be easier for both of us, Cere," Anakin tries to soften his voice. It mustn't have worked, because Cere only grows more defiant in the Force.

The Jedi opens her eyes, and leans her head back. She looks comfortable, almost relaxed, in her seat. “I don’t care what’s easiest. I care about what is right.”

“Where are they?” Anakin says. He can only ask so much. Eventually, he has to pull the lever. 

Anakin can’t afford to fail again. His conversation with Sidious only an hour and a bit ago wasn’t as violent as some of the other encounters with his master, but he knew Sidious would only tolerate so much. Failing here, after he had condemned the Grand Inquisitor for the same thing, would mean death. With the Inquisitors here, Sidious would have a new source for potential apprentices. None of them would be able to match Anakin’s raw strength, but they might come close. They’d certainly do a better job than he was.

“I will not give in.”

Anakin raises his hand slowly, intentionally. He makes his motions clear, and when his hand settles around the lever, he gives her a few seconds to speak.

She doesn’t, and Anakin pulls the lever down.

With a screech, the hinged pads on each side of the lever roll up and clamp down over Cere’s chest. The Jedi screams, her eyes rolling up into her head. Anakin flinches back. Her arms are strapped down, but her fingers still curl as her muscles tense and relax rapidly. 

White arcs of electricity dance across her chest, and Cere’s legs go entirely stiff.

Anakin pushes the lever back up, and Cere’s body drops forward. Her scream dies with the electricity, but it softens into a sob when Cere droops forwards. Her shoulders—still covered in the beige tones of the Jedi Order—spasm rapidly. Spit dribbles down her chin, and Cere takes a large, gulping breath.

“Cere. Where is the padawan?”

Anakin doesn’t want her to answer—he will have to kill her padawan if he finds her—but if she doesn’t give up now, then he’ll have to electrocute her again. 

He’s not sure which option is truly better. Either way, he has no room for failure. Sidious has made that clear, and so has the Grand Inquisitor. 

“I am not scared of death. I will join those who came before me in the Force,” Cere whispers,sounding more like she is reciting a script than speaking. Anakin’s heart slams against his ribcage, and he shields himself entirely for when he slams the lever back down, and Cere screams.

Her mouth opens so wide that the corners start to turn red, and a vein bulges out on her neck. Cere is crying out for someone, and her muscles are so tense that there’s a snap. Anakin releases the lever again.

When Cere opens her eyes this time, blood slides out of one. Anakin recoils. Fuck. He couldn’t have hurt her that badly. He’d never do that. That wasn’t him, that wasn’t what he would do.

(The Tuskens scream around him. Poggle the Lesser’s choked gasps fill his ears. A clone trooper takes off his helmet—with a white arrow against a blue background painted onto the surface—and just stares at Anakin.

This is what you have always been, something whispers. This is what you will always be).

But Cere blinks, and the blood drops onto her robes. Her eye is still very much there, but a large blood vessel by her iris has popped. 

Anakin walks closer, his steps echoing through the room. 

“Where is the padawan?”

“You will not break me.”

Anakin eyes up the lever. It’s the easiest way to do this, but every single time he even considers pulling the lever again, he's reminded of how Sidious had hurt him. The way the lightning surged through him, how he had to drag himself back to his own quarters.

There are other options, but none of them are good. He sets his shoulders, and tells himself that this will be better than electrocution. Anakin steps ever closer, until he’s just within arms reach of Cere. This will not be pleasant for each of them.

Anakin reaches out with a hand, and hovers just in front of Cere’s face. The woman stares for a few seconds, before her face crumples and her mouth opens, maybe to speak—

Anakin is already at her shields. The Force steadies him, holds him upright, and he uses it to ram down her defences. Cere is well-trained, and she bolsters herself in the Force. They’d given her Force-inhibiting cuffs, but you don’t need the Force for shields. 

He leans even deeper into the well of power within him, and grabs her mind in one hand. She bucks, her mind thrashing about wildly, and Anakin grits his teeth. He’s never liked mind tricks, always preferring to use blunter methods, but he knows that if he pushes her too far she will snap, and Anakin will lose her padawan, along with his life. 

Something all-encompassing within him, something burning dark and hot and angry, rises, and Anakin grabs it. His limbs buzz with new energy, and he luxuriates in the power, in the control he's gained. He clutches Cere’s mind in his hands, applies just the slightest bit of pressure with his new power, and Cere screams.

He presses down harder, and the thing inside of him laughs. Cere’s mind is beginning to crumple, like a Star Destroyer slowly folding in on itself.

“Jaresh!”

Anakin presses a bit further, caught up in the delirium that his new power has brought him. It’d be so easy to just snap her mind and be done with it.

“Trilla’s on Jaresh!”

Anakin lets go, and falls back into himself. Cere is pale, her nose bleeding from the effort she’d went through to keep him out. The thing inside of him recedes, but it leaves his temples pounding. He steps away from the Jedi, back across the metal walkway, and quietly shoves that dark thing deep down, where he won't see it again. The Grand Inquisitor waits, a self satisfied smirk already on his face, when Anakin turns to one of the clones standing with the Inquisitor.

"Prepare a ship. The padawan is on Jaresh."

The way the Grand Inquisitor fills with shock almost makes Anakin forget about Cere's screams. He turns from the Pau'an, and smiles to himself under the helmet. 

It seems like Rex will have to wait.

* * *

The issue with Trilla is this.

He does not want to deliver any Jedi into the hands of the Empire. Trilla, being a padawan, will most likely be claimed by the Inquisition and become another Inquisitor. If worse comes to worse, she’ll be killed along with the rest of her kin.

If he does not bring her in, he’ll be one step closer to being dead. Sidious may still have some use for him, but the reality is, letting a padawan go is unacceptable. Trilla will be captured sooner or later, and the older she is, the more likely they’ll be to just kill her. She’ll spend the next years of her life on the run, most likely losing herself along the way.

That’ll happen no matter what he does. At least with the Inquisition, she’ll have what she needs to live.

He tries to explain this to her. Trilla does not listen.

Her lightsaber is already lit—a double-staffed blue blade—and she adjusts her grip on it every once in a while. Anakin holds his own lightsaber, but he doesn’t light it yet. 

“You won’t touch them,” she snarls, her upper lip pulling up as she speaks. Trilla drags her lightsaber in the tip of the dirt, leaving faint scorch marks wherever she walks. She is covered in dust. The light from her blade only illuminates one half of her face, and highlights the way hunger has pulled back her bones and left her eyes dull.

“Trilla, you don’t have a choice. Surrender, and you will be provided for," Anakin steps forward, hands up like he's calming a wild animal, and Trilla takes two steps back.

“As a tool of the Empire!”

“As a sentient being.”

Trilla jumps forwards, slashing with her staff, and Anakin dodges to the right, kicking up a cloud of dust as he does. The padawan’s black hair falls over her eyes, but she doesn’t bother to remove it as she walks. 

She needs to just listen to him. Anakin’s finger hovers over the lightsaber switch, and he almost presses it. It’d be easier to just kill her. She wouldn’t have to suffer as an Inquisitor. But he’d be stuck with her corpse. He’d be stuck knowing that he had killed an innocent padawan. Someone who was just trying to do the right thing. It's selfish, but it's not like he has time to really mull it over.

“I don't want to hurt you.”

“Then leave me alone!” Trilla screams. Jaresh is a hot, humid planet, and the heat seeps through to the hut they’re standing in. Perspiration beads on Trilla’s forehead. 

“I can’t.”

Trilla slashes again, and Anakin dodges. The suit bends awkwardly around his joints as he does. Why can’t she just see reason? Anakin has thought of a thousand different ways he could handle this, and there isn’t a single one in which they both win. This is best, for both of them. 

That same unknown from Cere’s interrogation awakens, and Anakin pushes it away. It’s powerful, but it leaves him drained and empty. 

He ignites his lightsaber. 

She won’t listen to him while she’s angry, so he might as well just let her burn it out now.

Trilla lowers herself to the ground, bunches her muscles, and burst forwards. She strikes with one blade. Anakin parries. She strikes with the opposite blade. Anakin parries.

It’s a boring dance, and yet he falls into it. It’s familiar, in a way nothing so far has been. There is a measured chaos in the fight, and when she strikes again in a long, downwards motions, Anakin uses the Force to push her slightly off-balance. Instinctively, Trilla switches off her lightsaber as she falls to the ground. 

“You do not want to fight me,” Anakin stands over her. Trilla looks up at him, a few small strands of her hair sticking to her face. Then, she spits.

Anakin has to restrain himself from just killing her right then.

He is still forming his sentence when Trilla hooks her ankle around Anakin’s foot. Before she can pull his legs out from under him, Anakin lifts the same foot and brings it down on her foot. Not hard enough to break it, but enough so that Trilla recoils, and struggles to get back to her feet. Why is she being so idiotic?

“Give up, Trilla. Surrender.”

Trilla grabs her lightsaber and pushes herself back up. She drops into a low stance, and ignites only one blade this time. Her chest heaves, but she presses forward. They meet in the middle, and every time Trilla swipes, Anakin parries.

She is good, but she’s only a padawan.

The next time she swings, Anakin twists his lightsaber around her bright blue blade and flicks it out of her hands. The Force carries it into his hands. Trilla splutters, and glances around the hut they’re in. The faint calls of clone troopers are carried through the air, and he watches as Trilla’s face morphs into one of fury.

Anakin keeps his lightsaber ignited. Trilla raises her hands, and for a brief moment all of her shields drop as she focuses. 

A battery of plates, baskets, and blankets fly towards Anakin, moving so fast that he barely has time to raise his lightsaber and cut through them. There’s a small tug on his other hand, and Trilla’s lightsaber flies back to her own hand. 

Anakin sighs. He’s trying not to hurt her, trying to let her burn her own aggravation out, but she seems to keep going. Most padawans would have given up by now, but Trilla keeps coming. Burst after burst, she tries to break his guard. 

It’d be a welcome challenge if she wasn’t really trying to kill him. Nonetheless, Anakin blocks every wild swing. Their lightsabers score the dirt floor, and Anakin has her pressed up against the wall, lightsabers locked, when he decides to play dirty.

“Cere trained you well.”

Her anger will make her sloppy, and he can use that. Trilla’s face twists, and her anger rips through the Force.

“What did you do to her?” Trilla yells, her voice scratchy. Tears gather in the corners of her eyes, but she does not cry yet.

Anakin can hear Cere’s screams again, can feel that dark being as it whispers to him. He bites the side of his cheek. Cere will recover.

“Nothing that can’t be fixed.”

Trilla throws her lightsaber. The blade spins in mid-air, and Anakin catches the arc of light with a carefully timed grab. He turns back to Trilla, already preparing his next words, when he realizes she’s gone.

Fucking idiot. Why couldn’t she understand. Anakin squeezed her lightsaber and hooked it to his belt. Trilla was gone—cloaking herself to the best of her ability—but he could still feel her anger. 

Anakin walked towards the straw wall and raised an arm, slashing through the dried grass in two X-shaped cuts. He steps through the wall. Behind him, the hut crumbles. Clonetroopers surge around him—not stormtroopers yet—have razed much of the village. Cylindrical huts, all made of straw or woven grass, lay burning around him. His suit filters out much of the smoke, but he still smells the destruction.

(In his mind, he is back in the Jedi Temple, while his world crumbles around him).

One of the large trees surrounding the village groans, and Anakin looks up to see Trilla riding the trunk of the tree as it falls to the ground.

Anakin hits the ground—hard—and scrambles away from the tree’s path. It lands on top of the hut he was just in, and if he hadn’t moved, he’d most likely still be in there. 

“You’re reckless, padawan,” Anakin calls. The vocoder carries his words to Trilla, whose eyes flick to the lightsaber on his belt as he speaks. 

She is surrounded by fire, but she doesn’t seem to care. Anakin considers his options, picks one, and then, he says, “Cere didn’t mention that to us.”

Trilla’s face flickers, and her anger disappears for a fleeting second. The statement knocks her off guard, and Anakin rushes at her. 

Trilla does not have a lightsaber, and he does not want to kill her, but he knows he won't. Anakin moves in decisive, broad strikes, and Trilla is able to duck under most of them.

“I doubt she told you anything,” Trilla stretches out a hand towards his belt, and Anakin uses the hand not on his lightsaber to grab her wrist and wrench it up, so she was dangling in the air, suspended by her hand.

“She told me where to find you.”

Trilla’s face breaks at that. Tears that have been building since the beginning of their fight fall, and she twists to try and escape his grip. “No. You lie. Cere wouldn't. S-she couldn't.”

“How else would we know where to find her?” Anakin speaks softly. Trilla's head goes limp, and she bites her lip to keep from sobbing. “You are beaten. Surrender.”

Trilla bites her lip hard enough to draw blood, and shakes her head. Anakin tightens his grip, and the thing inside of him laughs. Trilla plants the flats of her feet on his chest and explodes backwards, landing with a loud grunt. 

Anakin is pushed backwards, and his suit drags him down to the ground. He lands with a thud, and when he inhales he wheezes.

He could just take his helmet off now and tell her the truth. It would be so much easier than trying to convince her of what she already knew. 

A million different scenarios flash through his brain. Trilla won’t believe him—he carries a red lightsaber and does the bidding of a Sith. Trilla uses the moment of weakness to kill him. A clone notices him without his helmet off and puts a bullet in the back of his skull.

Sidious finds out.

No. Anakin has to bring her in, and he has to make sure she’s alive. But he’s sick of playing games. He’s given her enough time to think about her options. If Trilla won’t listen, Anakin will make her listen. 

Flames lap at his feet, but Anakin stands anyway. His cape is tattered. Trilla splays her hand out and pulls her lightsaber again. 

“Are we still playing this game, padawan?”

Trilla snarls and grits her teeth. She launches herself at him again, all fire and anger and loose-limbed grace. She brings her blade in close for a horizontal strike, and Anakin uses one hand to block her lightsaber, and another to grab her wrist, push it up, slip under her arm, and draw a line up her back with his lightsaber.

The padawan’s shoulders pull back, and she collapses to the ground. Stifled gasps fall from her mouth, and Trilla shakes. Anakin stares at his handiwork. The wound is shallow, but it cut through her robes and into muscle. Nothing time in a bacta tank won’t fix. The scar will be nasty, but it was necessary. She wouldn't listen. He'd warned her, he'd given her countless opportunities to stand down, and she hadn't listened. What other choice did he have?

The thing inside of him laughs as he calls troopers over, laughs when he boards the shuttle away from Jaresh, and laughs when he has the gall to feel guilty about everything later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summary: anakin is led to a torture chamber where cere junda, a Jedi knight, is being held hostage. the grand inquisitor informs him that they're searching for cere's padawan trilla. anakin, seeing no other way out, electrocutes cere before resorting to aggressive mind tricks to get the information from her.
> 
> notes: LISTEN i know it seems like nothing happens in this chapter but i swear!! it’s important!!! it’s here for a reason!!
> 
> POSTED 07/06/2020


	5. Remnants of the War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahsoka and Rex make a few hasty decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to my wifi for being offline all day so i couldnt publish this chapter >:(

While she waits for Rex, Ahsoka settles onto one of Thabeska’s many rocks and eats her last ration bar. It’s just as dry as it always is, but she’s so hungry she doesn’t complain. 

Ever since landing on Thabeska a few weeks prior, Ahsoka had been stuck doing odd jobs—most of them for a large, homogenous family named the Fardis—but she hadn’t bothered finding real employment. She’d contacted Rex a few minutes after she crash-landed on Thabeska, but he hadn’t been able to get to the planet until now.

Ahsoka takes another bite of the ration bar and scans the sky. Thabeska doesn’t get a lot of traffic, so when Rex arrives it should be obvious. 

Unless he isn’t coming.

Ahsoka crumples up the wrapper and shoves it into her small pouch, before lowering her face into her hands. Rex is alive. He has to be. If he can survive the war, then he can survive a few months of the Empire. 

The wind blows, and Thabeska cries. Wind has eroded away the rocks for years, and when it blows, it whistles through the caves. It sounds like a low sob, an primordial sound coming from the planet itself. She scans the sky again. From here, she can see every planet in the galaxy stretching out before her. 

Somewhere, out there, is her family.

(Her bond with Anakin snapped, and _oh_ , how it had hurt. Ahsoka was placing Jesse’s helmet onto his grave, when she had stumbled, and then her legs went entirely numb. She dug her fingers into the freshly-turned dirt, tried to breath, wondered if the burning in her lungs was hers or his, and then, it had broken. The bond between her and her master—her brother, really—had been severed. 

Rex doesn’t ask her about it. Even if he did, she doesn’t know what she’d say. 

The bond she had with Obi-Wan had been stretched thin to begin with—it was barely there, more of a half-formed thought than a proper training bond, but its absence pulled on her all the same. 

She tells herself they still have to be alive out there).

Ahsoka doesn’t know this arrangement of the stars, but she knows the Force. It envelops her, and for a moment, Ahsoka in back in the crèche. Everything is cast in a hazy yellow light. She is warm. 

That only lasts for a few milliseconds, and then the Force opens up around her. Hundreds of tiny pinpricks burst to life around her, and Ahsoka takes a deep breath, letting the air fill her lungs. She leans on the Force, and it cradles her. 

It’s lighter, now. Ahsoka had been on Thabeska for less than a week before the Empire came looking for her, bringing. . . something along with them. If she had to wager a guess, she’d say itwas Sidious’ new apprentice, but she doesn’t put too much stock in that theory.

Dooku had died only a few months ago. Sidious might’ve had a few backup apprentices, but one with that kind of power would have to be trained for years.

Briefly, Ahsoka had reached towards the presence in the Force. She touched white-hot anger, and it bit at her skin like no blade ever could. Whoever they had been, they had been powerful, and they had been looking for her. 

Ahsoka had waited until the Empire receded from Thabeska before she gave Rex the all clear to come pick her up. In truth, she didn’t know if he would come.

She still doesn’t. 

Ahsoka clasps her hands together and presses them against her chin. She keeps herself rooted in the Force, paying close attention to the way it ebbs and flows around her, steady as the rising sun.

It’s not meditation, but it’s close enough. The Force has been clouded for a long time, and now that Ahsoka knows the cause it feels ten times more dangerous. She tries not to let that affect her too much.

Rex should’ve been here by now. 

Ahsoka grabs her bag from where it leans against the rock, and clutches it to her chest. He will be here. She would’ve known if he died. 

She ventures even deeper into the Force. There isn’t much else to do on Thabeska. The Togruta lets her awareness spread a bit further, beyond just this city. Gradually, her consciousness envelops all of Thabeska. 

There. Now she’ll know when he comes.

Ahsoka monitors every tiny blip of light on Thabeska, even the rats. She affords special attention to the clearing she sits in. Part of her still expects to hear B1 battle droids round the corner at every moment. Ahsoka lets that worry float away into the Force. If she didn’t feel an enemy approach, then she’d sense them otherwise. Her montrals are designed to sense predation.

A small ship, and a singular presence, flares to life over Thabeska, and Ahsoka immediately pulls herself out of her meditation. 

Grinning, she swings her bag onto her back and steps off the rock. Rex’s beaten, disc-shaped freighter is recognizable even through Thabeska’s dust. Ahsoka waves a hand, hoping he can see her. His lights cut deep through the night. He's here. He's not dead.

The freighter settles down onto the plains, and Ahsoka rushes towards it as the ramp opens. Merely a few seconds after she steps into the ship, Rex is taking off again.

He’s ditched his plastoid armour for a less conspicuous (though no less protective) set of white durasteel armour. 501st blue is painted onto some of the pieces, but Rex has kept the decorating fairly innocuous. 

He did keep his helmet, with its jaig eyes and tally marks, but didn’t wear it. Ahsoka suspects he has the rest of his armour hidden somewhere on the ship, but she doesn’t press it.

“How was your trip, Commander?” Rex glances at her, and Ahsoka smiles. 

“It could’ve gone a lot worse,” Ahsoka says. Rex snorts.

Ahsoka reaches down to tug off her boots, and the ship rumbles as they leave Thabeska. Under her feet, the ship rocks. Rex was a competent pilot—better than most of the men probably were—but he was still getting used to the way their new ship, the _Prophet_ , moved.

When they arrived on Alderaan, Ahsoka and Rex only had a single Y-wing bomber and a couple of supplies. It probably wasn’t the best place to go, being a core world, but Ahsoka was looking for someone. 

She should’ve known he wouldn’t be there. Skywalker was gone. He’d been on Coruscant, at the Temple, when Order 66 was declared. Chosen One he may be, but it would take an immense amount of skill and luck to make it out of there alive. 

Though they didn’t find Anakin, they did find Bail and Breha Organa. A Alderaanian guard had recognized one of them from one of their previous visits, and had carried the news all the way to the Queen of Alderaan.

Breha chastised both of them for getting caught, and then sheltered them. Her and Senator Organa knew of other Republic loyalists, and directed them to a base in the mountains, where Ahsoka had met with Imperial defectors—none of them clones—who were hiding from the Emperor.

Rex and her did enough odd jobs to purchase both the _Prophet_ and a slightly battered Delta-7 with its hyperdrive ring attached. Ahsoka went back to the ruins of the Star Destroyer, and fiddled a bit with the navicomputer to make it seem like she had left the ship during Order 66. If the ship was ever captured—which it was, a few weeks later down the line—it’d cast suspicion off of her. Imps would find her lightsabers and think her dead. That way, they’d be searching for a human, not a Togruta.

Ahsoka didn’t expect that search to reach to Thabeska. They’d either tracked her ship through hyperspace—which was damn near impossible—or someone on Thabeska had reported her. 

But they had left soon enough, and Ahsoka had waited for Rex for the better part of two weeks.

“What took you so long?” Ahsoka shakes out her boots, and a cloud of thick dust fills the ship. 

“I got sidetracked.”

“With what?”

Rex adjusts his grip on the controls, and his worry spikes in the Force. Ahsoka steps back into her boots, “Rex.”

“I heard the 104th is on Sy Myrth.”

Ahsoka settles into the co-pilot’s seat and stares at Rex. He glances back at her, and the mark from where she removed his inhibitor chip seems to stare at her. 

“I think we should go there.”

Ahsoka blinks, “And then?”

“I-I know Wolffe. He trusts me. We might be able to get his inhibitor chip out.”

Ahsoka shifts a bit in her chair, and pulls one leg up. Wolffe is an experienced commander, and if they could explain everything to him, he’d be a strong ally. More importantly, he’s a friend. Ahsoka had worked with him, alongside Plo Koon, many times in the war. 

But he’s also on a battleground, one swarming with clone troopers that would kill her without a second thought.

“Rex, I’m not. . .” Ahsoka trails off. How is she supposed to explain it to him? Rex’s hands tighten on the controls. 

“I’m just worried. What if we get recognized? I’d be killed, and you’d probably be tried as a deserter,” Ahsoka says. She looks away from him, and into the great black sea in front of them. Sy Myrth is an Outer Rim planet, and was a Separatist stronghold during the war. Imperial presence there will be strong, and if she’s recognized, even for a few seconds, she’ll be chock full of blaster bolts. Ahsoka abandoned her lightsabers—a decision she was now beginning to regret—and the only weapons she’d picked up on Alderaan were two elongated electrobatons. She’d modified them so that they emulated her lightsabers, but they were nowhere near familiar.

“Ahsoka, they’re brothers. I can’t just leave them.”

“I _know_ , Rex. I’m just—” Ahsoka starts, before she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and collects her errant thoughts. “I don’t want to draw any more attention than we already have.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, Commander,” Rex half-laughs, and Ahsoka gives a terse smile. He glances at her, and his expression falls.

“What happened?”

Ahsoka sinks down further into her seat and rubs her temples. For a few seconds, she’s silent. How is she supposed to explain the presence on Thabeska? Someone so consumed with anger and hatred that it hurt her to reach out to them?

She’d felt it before, while fleeing from the base on Alderaan, but only briefly. They’d been caught off guard, and their emotions had dulled for a few seconds.

“There was. . . someone on Thabeska,” Ahsoka doesn’t look at Rex, even though he definitely looks at her. She focuses on a planet drifting by, through space. “Someone Force-senstive.”

“A Jedi?”

“No. They used the Dark side of the Force,” Ahsoka says. A mottled blue-green planet flicks by. She can feel Rex’s confusion as he deciphers her words. The clones were familiar with the Force, especially those close to their generals, but the Jedi had never bothered to explain the exact nuances of Force theory.

“A Sith, then? Like Dooku?”

Ahsoka chews her lip, “Not exactly.”

Rex blinks.

“Just because someone uses the Dark side doesn’t make them a Sith. Like how you can be Force-sensitive without being a Jedi.”

Rex nods, and Ahsoka continues, “That being said, they could’ve been a Sith. I-I’m just not sure. Dooku’s only been dead for a couple of months. I didn’t expect Sidious to have a new apprentice so soon.”

“And you’re worried they’ll find you.”

Ahsoka almost protests, but then she just closes her eyes and nods. Rex takes a shuddering breath. 

“We’ll head to Dantooine, then. A few others are setting up a base there.”

Rex taps the navicomputer, and there’s a brief whir as it prepares for hyperspace.

Ahsoka runs a hand over her montrals. She taps into the Force, and sheds her fear like it’s a second skin. Going to Dantooine is the smart move. It’s remote, with no Imperial presence and locals that know how to keep their mouths closed. 

Sy Myrth is almost guaranteed to be trouble, though there are people in need there. Wolffe was her friend, once. 

Ahsoka grabs Rex’s hand just before he makes the jump. She swallows, and meets his brown eyes, before giving him a small nod. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face. He adjusts the navicomputer, and the world around them blurs.

* * *

Sy Myrth is a swampy, dark planet. Rex and Ahsoka can’t exactly land in the middle of town, not looking the way they do, so they find a small patch of grass to set down on.

It’s a bumpy landing.

The ship is half-submerged in the water, but the landing ramp reaches solid ground. Ahsoka trundles down the ramp, adjusting her mask on her face. Rex had picked it up before he came to get her, and it fit rather well. He’d given her a new outfit as well. Surprisingly, Ahsoka found that she liked it. 

Dyed a toned-down shade of navy blue, it helped her blend into the crowd while still looking nice. The suit was padded in several areas, with plates of armour on her chest, knees, elbows, calves, and just about every other unprotected area on her body. There was a small hood that Ahsoka could pull up to cover her montrals, though her lekku were still visible. The mask covered her face without being bulky, with the added bonus of a built in vocoder. Nothing too fancy, but it twisted her voice a bit so she wasn’t so recognizable.

It's suitable for now. 

Rex walks down the ramp after her, carrying his own helmet under his arm. Ahsoka gives him a pointed look before she forgets he can’t see her.

“Rex?”

He turns, “What is it?”

“I don’t think you should have your helmet on.”

He glances at it, and his face falls. Rex shrugs a bag off of his shoulders, and then forces the white helmet into it. Ahsoka carries their only map, so she starts walking ahead of him.

Her electrobatons are crossed in an X on her back, for ease of travel. It’s a glaring difference from her lightsabers. They were easy to conceal, as the blades could be tucked into crevices and stored in bags easily. Electrobatons were heavier, longer. Ahsoka couldn’t even carry them by her hip, either, because they would hit her legs every time she walked.

But, they were better than nothing. 

The holomap flickers, and Ahsoka hits it. The tech they have isn’t exactly high-quality. During their time in the G.A.R., Ahsoka and Rex had gotten used to having the newest tech available on hand. Yes, they did have to improvise frequently on the battlefield, but the ships they flew, the weapons they used, those were always new.

The pair settle onto a beaten, muddy road soon enough. The holomap shows them drawing closer to the main settlement of this sector of Sy Myrth. Rex had some intel on the area, and it suggested Wolffe was stationed there in preparation for a coming battle.

As they grow closer to the settlement, the low chatter of the city starts to filter through the swamp. Ahsoka clutches the holomap tighter. For all Rex knows, they could be walking into a trap. Who knows what might be waiting around the corner? 

Wolffe might be a lost cause. He’d always been fiercely loyal, and Ahsoka doesn’t want to think about him pledging that loyalty to the Empire. 

They just have to find him, and fast. How they’re going to get the inhibitor chip removed is another matter altogether—the medical equipment needed would only be found on a military-grade ship, or a wealthy Coruscanti hospital. They can barely afford to buy functioning holomaps, much less medical care.

Ahsoka shoves that to the back of her mind as they reach the inside of the settlement. Though small, it absolutely buzzes with life. The buildings, most of them made out of rotting wood, are stacked on top of each other like mini-skyscrapers. Rickety walkways bridge the gaps between buildings.

Clones, wearing Phase II armour, are stationed around all levels of the town. Ahsoka glances at Rex. He nods, and pulls a red scarf over his mouth and nose. His hair is still recognizable, as are his eyes, but it’ll take a few more seconds to identify him as a clone. That’s all they need.

Already, they stand out in the crowd. There are plenty of humans, but Ahsoka’s curved montrals, though covered, instantly give her away as a Togruta. Rex walks like a soldier, his head high and his strides long and even. 

A Sy Myrthian, covered in short fur, gives her a once over as Ahsoka passes. Their clothes are thin, with holes worn into the bottom, and a wonky hem. As they continue through the settlement, Rex watching for Wolffe’s signature armour, Ahsoka sees more and more people with worn clothing and protruding bones.

The war has left its mark on the galaxy. There were the obvious results: the Jedi were exterminated, the Republic had died, and Ahsoka had lost nearly everyone she cared about. But there were less obvious stains. 

This settlement, for one. Sy Myrth had been a founding member of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, and they had been rich once, but their coffers were drained by the war, and their people left destitute. 

Ahsoka looks away from the inhabitants and begins to inspect the clone trooper’s armour. Wolffe had painted his in sharp grey slashes, with the lower half of every limb accentuated by pale grey markings.

Most of the clones are wearing grey armour. Definitely the 104th.

“See anything?” Ahsoka leans towards Rex, trying to make her voice as soft as possible. He doesn’t turn his head as he responds.

“Not yet,” he says. Ahsoka resumes scanning the crowd.

Even through her suit’s filters, the scent of manure and sweat hangs heavy in the air. The people watch her as she moves through the ground. 

“Any idea where the barracks might be?” Ahsoka hisses, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. None of the civvies around her carried weapons, and with two giant electrobatons on her back, Ahsoka was starting to think they may have miscalculated.

Rex doesn’t respond for a moment, and then he replies, “City centre.”

“Great. Any idea where that might be?” Ahsoka says, edging past a particularly loud Iktotchi as he stumbled past her. 

“Look to the left of that bar. On the bridge,” Rex whispers, his pace slowly considerably as hepushes Ahsoka to turn to the right. Ahsoka follows his line of sight towards a half-crumbling bar, and then she looks a level up. To the left, standing on the bridge, is Wolffe.

His grey armour is a little mud-caked, and there’s some new blaster marks that weren’t there the last time Ahsoka had seen him. Two black DC-17 pistols—the same kind Rex favoured—hang from his sides. 

A chrono beeps somewhere in the crowd, and Wolffe turns from his position on the stained wooden bridge, making his way through the maze of houses with ease. 

Ahsoka elbows Rex, and his head snaps to face her. She stops him, and says, “Go to the right. Stick to ground level. I’ll try and push him down.”

Rex nods, and then they’re off. 

She tries her hardest to be as subtle as possible, but that’s not exactly possible when you’re pushing your way through a crowd with two massive electrobatons on your back. Luckily, most of the clones seem to ignore her.

Ahsoka slips in between the crowd, and veers into a dirty alley. There’s a few men passed out drunk, and she reaches out to check if they’re conscious enough to remember her. 

They’re not, so she lets the Force flow through her, and jumps off of one of the walls, propelling herself upwards. After the final jump, she latches onto a bridge and pulls herself up. It’s good to be this active again. 

Ahsoka searches the Force until she can find Wolffe’s rough signature. She latches onto it, and starts to walk towards it. She can’t afford to be fast; that’ll draw too much attention, and Wolffe will probably kill her before she can explain anything to him.

She rounds a corner, and watches as the crowd parts around Wolffe. The troopers are respected here—or feared. Same result.

Rex trails Wolffe from below the walkways. The commander seems completely unaware of them tailing him, and Ahsoka uses it to her advantage.

She stays a few metres behind him, and whenever he glances back, Ahsoka shifts so that she’s standing behind someone taller than she is. Every few seconds, she glances at Rex (if she can see him at all).

They have to get Wolffe down, onto the ground level, before he reaches the barracks. And they have to do it without any other troopers noticing. There’s not a lot around her she can use. The walkway she’s on is wide, and a crowd flows through it. A couple of stacked boxes, a market vendor, and a shit ton of people.

Ahsoka eyes the market vendor greedily. Wolffe is a clone trooper, and if she can time it right, he’ll be the only trooper within earshot. 

She waits a few seconds, until Wolffe is a few paces behind the vendor, and then she shoots forward. Ahsoka barrels into Wolffe’s shoulder and darts for the fruit vendor, snatching a meiloorun. 

“Stop!”

Ahsoka ducks as Wolffe fires the first stun bolt. She pushes herself a bit faster, her footsteps echoing on the wooden walkways, and swerves down the first set of stairs she sees. Wolffe is hot behind her, and when he fires the second stun bolt, Ahsoka turns into the first alleyway she sees and abandons the meiloorun on the ground.

It’s dark and damp, the moisture of the swampy planet sinking into the wood around her. A walkway runs overhead, making the entrance the only way in or out. It’ll be hard to dodge Wolffe in the tight space, but Ahsoka just needs to keep herself from getting stunned until Rex gets here.

And she needs to keep her mask on. That might be the most important bit.

Wolffe’s broad silhouette appears in the entrance, and he fires two shots at once. Ahsoka springs upwards, taking care not to hit the ceiling, and lands with a tight roll just in front of him. Ahsoka grabs his wrist and pulls it forward while she turns. Wolffe is shoved into her back, and Ahsoka elbows him, then flips him over her. While he’s on the ground, Ahsoka grabs both of his blasters and tucks them

Rex skids to a stop in the entrance while Wolffe is still struggling to stand. Rex pushes past her and lowers his scarf. Wolffe is dazed, and when he raises his head and sees Rex, he flinches like he’s been hit.

“Rex?”

The captain’s face crumples, and he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.”

Wolffe pushes himself to his feet. A hand drifts to his hip, where his blasters would normally be, and Ahsoka tenses before she remembers that she has the blasters.

“What the hell is this?” Wolffe grunts, still reeling from the force of Ahsoka’s blow. 

“Wolffe, we can explain. You just have to hear us out.”

Wolffe staggers back. “We?”

“Wolffe—” Rex starts. Wolffe’s hand flashes to his comlink, and Ahsoka bursts towards him, electrobatons off of her back and on. Before he can even react, Ahsoka drives one of the batons up into his stomach. The electricity pulses through the clone for a moment, his entire body tensing up, and then he falls onto the ground, completely still.

“I didn’t kill him,” Ahsoka deactivates her batons and puts them back. Rex just blinks at her, and stares at Wolffe’s unconscious body. He bites the side of his cheek, and Ahsoka can see him already piecing together a plan.

“Take off his armour,” Rex sighs, already pulling his own scarf off. Ahsoka laughs, but with the vocoder it comes out robotic and stilted. She turns towards Wolffe and pulls off his helmet. There’s a few bloody scrapes on his head, but other than that, he doesn’t look too bad. 

She strips him down to his blacks, and for every piece she takes off, Rex hands her a piece of his durasteel armour. Rex still uses the blacks he was given by the G.A.R., so when he shoves himself into Wolffe’s armour, complete with the painted helmet, he fits in perfectly. 

Rex takes a step towards Wolffe, but Ahsoka stops him. She pulls Rex’s red scarf around Wolffe’s eyes, and ties it tight behind his head. 

“There.” Ahsoka steps away from Wolffe, and Rex picks him up. He slings his brother across his shoulders, and Wolffe’s head lolls from side to side whenever Rex moves.

Ahsoka pulls out the holomap again, and ducks out from the alley. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Ahsoka leads, and Rex follows her. Wolffe’s breathing is slightly wheezy. Had she hurt him? Ahsoka shakes off that fear—she can deal with it later—and continues on her path through the crowd. 

Much like they had parted for Wolffe, the crowd parts for Rex. Some of the clonetroopers linger on Ahsoka and Rex for a few seconds too long, but no one questions them. Rex’s mounting anxiety grows more and more intense as they grow closer to the ship.

They’re able to pass the entrance of the town with little difficulty. No one questions the man their commanding officer is carrying, and no one questions her. 

Soon, enough the pathway turns muddy again, and Ahsoka looks back at Rex. “That could’ve gone worse.”

“I guess,” Rex murmurs. Ahsoka is about to poke fun at him again when the steady marching of clone troops fills her ears. She grips her holomap tighter. 

“Let me handle this,” she whispers to Rex. He nods, and Ahsoka wills herself to be still as the clone troops round the corner. At the sight of Rex and Ahsoka, with Wolffe limp on Rex’s back, they slow. 

“Is everything alright, sir? Do you need help?”

Rex waves a hand dismissively, “Everything’s under control. Go back to work, trooper.”

Wolffe chooses that moment to wake up.

Ahsoka swears, low enough that her vocoder doesn’t pick it up. His arms start to move, and Rex has to fight to keep carrying him.

“Are you sure, sir? We’d be happy to help.”

Wolffe’s hands go to his face, and though Ahsoka lunges, she can’t stop him from tugging off the scarf and looking up at his troopers. 

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to put the commander down,” the clone leading the patrol raised his blaster, and the rest of his squad followed.

Ahsoka looks between Rex and the squad of troopers, and places her bet. She splays out her hands, reaches into the Force, and pushes, sending the troopers flying off of the path. Some of them are knocked out, but others start pushing their way back up the slope. 

They hit the ground hard, Ahsoka leading the way. According to the holomap, the ship was a couple hundred metres away.

Shouting follows them, and Ahsoka pushes herself faster. She glances down at the holomap again, searching for a faster route, and then the blue hologram flickers, freezes, and disappears.

“Shit!” Ahsoka screams, frantically slapping the base of the holomap. Rex is slowing the longer he has to run, and Ahsoka knows that neither of them will be able to continue for much longer. Wolffe is struggling, and Rex is trying to run through ankle-deep mud while carrying several pounds of equipment and weapons. 

Blaster bolts pepper the ground around them—some coming dangerously close to hitting—and Ahsoka slams the holomap against her leg. For all she knows, they might be running away from the ship. 

She looks up, searching for the blocky frame of the _Prophet_ , and finds nothing. This can’t be it. Ahsoka slows, and shoves the holomap into Rex’s hand. He grunts, readjusting to grip both the holomap and Wolffe’s limbs, and Ahsoka slows even more. 

Electricity fills the air, and Ahsoka prods Wolffe with a baton for good measure. “Go! I’ll be right there!” 

Rex nods, and keeps running. Ahsoka twirls her batons, trying to get used to how they moved, how the weight was distributed throughout the entire weapon instead of just the end, and turns. 

There’s only three troopers following her, but they shout loud enough to sound like ten. That makes her feel a bit better, until one of them fires at her and Ahsoka remembers that she’s still in danger.

The ground is slick under her feet, and as Ahsoka jumps over a protruding root. As one of the troopers draws close, she pulls it out of the ground with a flick of her wrist. He goes tumbling into the mud, and Ahsoka is left with only two troopers following her. 

Forcing more air into her lungs, Ahsoka speeds up. The Force burns through her, sharpening her every movement. She clutches a baton harder, and skids to a stop. Before the troopers can react, she throws the baton like a javelin. With a bit of assistance from the Force, it hits the middle of the second trooper’s chest. Ahsoka doesn’t look back. She’ll get a new baton later. For now, she just has to focus on not dying.

She ducks away from another blaster bolt, and turns her head so she can get a better shot. Ahsoka uses her empty hand to Force pull the blaster out of the clone’s hands, and then sends it back at him. The heavy gunmetal slams into his helmet, and the crack on impact makes her stomach curdle. The trooper falls, and Ahsoka skids to a stop. She is covered in mud, every breath feels like inhaling flames, and she is so, so tired.

Ahsoka forces herself to start walking towards Rex’s presence anyway.

* * *

On Dantooine, they take out Wolffe’s chip.

This time around, the process is a lot less rushed than it was with Rex. After their stint on Sy Myrth, most of the other loyalists have told them to lay low. 

Rex and Ahsoka both wait for Wolffe to wake up. The droids on the base cleaned up the scrapes on his face with some bacta, and had given him a few nutritional supplements along with those.

Neither one knows what they’re supposed to tell him when he wakes up. Rex had gotten his chip removed during Order 66, not after, so they were flying blind. Rex had said he wasn’t able to control his own body once he heard the words, like he was banging on the walls of his own mind, trying to gain some semblance of control.

Ahsoka tilts her head as she watches Wolffe. Had he regained control afterwards, or had he spent the last three months on autopilot? Was it him who recognized Rex, or some sick facsimile?

When he woke up, would he be Wolffe, or would he be CC-3636?

Ahsoka shuffles in her seat, and lets herself sink into a meditation. 

Dantooine is calm. Not Alderaanian ocean-calm, or Naboo’s flowery peace, but the peace that only comes with true balance. Around her, the base thrives with life. There’s not very many of them here, but there are enough to make the base light up.

She stretches further, searching for someone else. She doesn’t care who she finds, as long as she finds one of them. They have to be out there, somewhere. There was no way she could survive while they had died. 

When she comes away with nothing, Ahsoka squeezes her eyes shut and tries not to make a sound as warm tears begin to slide down her face.

Rex’s hand snaps her out of her meditation. He wraps an arm around her shoulders, and lets her dig her face into his chest and cry.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

None of this was fair. Ahsoka had been so close to coming back. Maybe not to the Jedi, but to Coruscant. They would’ve gotten a chance to actually be family again, to watch stupid holodramas and eat at Dex’s and then that had all died, along with Anakin and Obi-Wan and Padmé—

Ahsoka lets out a loud sob, her body shaking. She should be better. Release her emotions into the Force. Rejoice in her masters becoming one with the Force. 

“Ahsoka?”

She shoots up, turning towards the white hospital bed. Wolffe blinks, his cybernetic eye whirring as it tries to focus on his surroundings.

“What—”

Rex pushes himself up, and throws his arms around Wolffe. The other trooper hesitantly hugs Rex back, patting the captain on the back as he shakes. Ahsoka smiles at Wolffe’s bewildered look.

This is a welcome distraction from everything else.

Rex steps back, but he doesn’t sit back down. Ahsoka’s not wearing her mask, and Wolffe’s eyes seem to peel back every facet of her appearance.

“Rex, you really shouldn’t be here,” Wolffe says, his voice still half-tinged with sleep. Rex freezes.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a bounty on your head. A million Imperial credits.”

Rex looks back at her. Ahsoka shrugs, and stands up. She crosses her arms over her chest and acts like she wasn’t crying a minute ago.

“By who?”

Wolffe sits up a bit more, and the white blanket over him wrinkles. He rubs his eye. “Lord Vader. Cody’s new commanding officer.”

“Lord Vader?”

“Cody’s alive?”

Rex and Ahsoka speak at the same time. She jerks her head at him, and Rex goes ahead with his question. “Cody’s still alive?”

Wolffe nods. “Yeah. He’s in command of the five-oh-first. They’re testing out some new armour or something. I haven’t really seen him.”

“He’s okay, though?” Rex says. Wolffe nods, seemingly wincing afterwards.

“Who’s Lord Vader?” Ahsoka asks, shifting her weight back onto her heels. The steady beeping of hospital monitors fills the room. 

“I-I’m not really sure. He reports directly to the Emperor, and Cody says he has a lightsaber.”

Ahsoka entire body goes cold, as if she’d just been dropped into ice water. A new commander, seemingly close with Sidious, carrying a lightsaber. The person on Thabeska, the person above Alderaan. . .

“He has the five-oh-first?” Rex’s voice drops, anger underlying each of his words. Wolffe nods again. This time, when he winces, he raises a hand to his head and brushes up against the edge of the bandages.

“Did you cut my hair?” Wolffe says, his words light. Rex’s throat bobs. Ahsoka opens her mouth, but Rex cuts her off. 

“What’s the last thing you remember?” 

Ahsoka closes her eyes as the Force constricts around her.

“You. In an alleyway.”

“Okay. What’s the last thing you remember from the war?” Rex speaks in low, soothing tones, but Ahsoka can feel the way that Wolffe suddenly thrashes in the Force, the air surrounding him becoming heavy with his pain.

“Cato Neimoidia. We were on the ground, dealing with Seppies.”

Rex is silent for a moment. Ahsoka does not speak. She doesn’t know what she’d say to Wolffe, who watched as his general—Master Plo, _her_ Master Plo—died and he cheered. All she knows is that the Force is growing darker and darker in the tiny room.

A small gasp breaks the silence, and Ahsoka opens her eyes. Wolffe is holding his mouth closed, but tears are building in his eyes, and he shakes with the effort to hold everything in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shortly after the establishment of the empire, sy myrth was a separatist planet who fought against them. was the 104th there? i have no idea. what is sy myrth's terrain like? i have no idea. was wolffe there? i have no idea.
> 
> additionally, we don't know what happened to the 104th after they found sifo-dyas' lightsaber, so im just saying that they were on cato neimoidia with plo when order 66 happened. 
> 
> i wrote this chapter after being awake for 33 hours, so if there's any typos / mistakes please tell me so i can fix them!! i hope you guys enjoyed the chapter!!
> 
> POSTED 08/06/2020


	6. The Ruins of the Republic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin makes his first move towards the coup. Rex organizes his own plan.

If Anakin ever gets out of this alive, he needs to redesign the Star Destroyers.

The current design packs over half of the ship’s crucial systems into its belly. It means one lucky shot could, potentially, disable the entire ship and leave its occupants hanging in dead space with no way to get out.

More importantly, it makes that particular section of the ship burn hotter than fucking Tatooine. 

Anakin tries to readjust himself, pressing his back against one of the large metal pipes running through the ship. The _Devastator_ is a behemoth of a ship. In one slightly sweaty hand, he clutches his own personal datapad and tries again. 

His flagship hovers over Kashyyyk, and will stay that way until he gives the word to move. There’s a Senate meeting he has to attend—something about the Inquisition—and the time to make the hyperspace jump is running out. That’s fine. He can miss it if he has to. 

He’s abandoned his suit in his own personal quarters. The vents on board his ship are tiny, and there’s no way he’d be able to crawl through the vents with it on. Sidious might find out, but he has to take that risk. If any of the clones find him, they’ll kill him immediately.

It is worth it.

He re-orients himself, and shuffles downwards. Anakin has sandwiched himself between two long, diagonal pipes. The closer he gets to Kashyyyk, the better. Anakin is making one of the stupidest decisions in his life (which has been full of stupid decisions so far).

He’s trying to contact the Loyalists for the first time. 

The main issue with that the transmission towers. Smuggling information off of military bases is difficult enough, and smuggling information off of a top military official’s personal flagship is nearly impossible. Transmissions coming from the ship are all checked by military personnel before they’re sent through. Darth Vader has an override as well as a personal channel he can use, but then the message can be traced back to him.

So he has to try and re-route his message through civilian towers. It’s still monitored, and the message will still be stored, but it’ll go through anyway, and it won’t even be traced back to the Kashyyyk. 

Anakin just has to get close enough to the transmission tower first, and that means scooting his way through the lowest level of the ship until he can pick up the tower’s signal. His datapad has been altered before, but there’s only so much he can do.

Besides, he knows that this is worth it. It has to be.

When he survived Order 66, he hadn’t contacted them. When he found their crashed Delta-7, he hadn’t contacted them. When he found Cere and Trilla, he hadn’t contacted them.

Now, he is. 

Anakin had spoken with the Grand Inquisitor again. The Pau’an contacted him during one of his rare moments of rest, and Anakin had nearly shattered the room in both annoyance and frustration.

The Inquisitor told him Jedi Master Luminara Unduli was alive.

“Though not for long, I hope,” the Grand Inquisitor smiled grimly. Anakin could imagine the yellow of his eyes even through the hologram. 

“What do you want from me, Inquisitor?”

“Unless stopped, I’m ordering her execution for tomorrow.”

Anakin stopped moving at that, and any hope of rest withered. He blinked. There was no room for error here—the experience with Cere showed him that the Inquisitor was not to be trifled with, and if he too obviously insisted on Unduli’s survival, she’d probably be dead before he could do anything about it.

“You’re done with her already?” Anakin said, his voice trembling slightly. Fuck. He didn’t really know how to do this at all. This game of words was entirely new, and he couldn’t afford any slip ups.

“Yes, my lord,” the Inquisitor held his arms behind his back in a perfect military stance. 

Anakin held his breath, waiting for a few torturous seconds before he responded, “I expected more from you.”

The Inquisitor’s face flickered at that, and his voice went cold. “What do you mean, my lord?”

“You have a Jedi Master as a prisoner, and you want to execute them.”

“She was not responsive to any of our methods. My lord,” the Inquisitor practically spat out the last two words, and even through the hologram Anakin could feel his annoyance through the Force. It wasn’t anything like his own, though. The Inquisitor’s annoyance was more like a buzzing fly. It was irritating, but very little harm would actually be done.

“Maybe you’re not trying hard enough.”

“My lord—”

“I won’t let you kill a Jedi Master without getting everything she knows,” Anakin took an undue amount of pleasure from the anger that rippled around the hologram. The Inquisitor’s face went sour. 

“I have used every instrument at my disposal.”

“If you can’t find anything, Inquisitor, I will come to Stygeon Prime myself.”

The red-marked Pau’an opened his mouth to say something else before Anakin shut off the hologram and pulled off his helmet. He left his armour behind, decided to grab his datapad, and crawled through the vents until he found the maintenance hall.

Anakin crawled as far down as he could without burning up, and that led him here. Waving his arm around, trying to find some kind of signal. He’d known the Inquisitor was dealing with a prisoner on Stygeon Prime, but he didn’t think it was a Jedi prisoner, much less a Jedi Master.

Unduli will be useful to the loyalists, but Anakin doesn’t hold any particular affinity for her.

(He still thinks of Ahsoka under the rock at Geonosis, and how Unduli had told him to let go of her. That this was the will of the Force. Someone so willing to let another Jedi—another person—go like that didn’t sit well with him. Even now).

Unduli had been a paragon of Jedi virtues. Patient, calm, and detached. Everything the Jedi wanted her to be—everything Anakin wasn’t.

She’ll be an asset to the loyalists, and ultimately, to him. That’s all that matters right now.

Of course, none of that will matter if Anakin can’t get the fucking signal.

He scoots further down, his hair plastered to his forehead from sweat. They won’t disrupt him while he’s supposed to be in his chambers, but if a single clone decides to check the maintenance halls, Anakin will probably be chock-full of blaster bolts within a few seconds.

Which means Luminara dies, and so does any hope of killing Sidious.

Anakin clutches the datapad hard enough to break it at that. Deep-rooted power floods his veins, almost begging to be used, and Anakin shoves it away. He’s not entirely sure what it is, but when he used it with Cere he was left feeling weaker than he had in a long time.

Anakin won’t die before killing Sidious. After that, he could care less, but right now he just has to survive long enough to build a plan and kill Sidious.

Starting with sending the message. Unduli is an accomplished Jedi master, and she’ll do wonders for the loyalists. If he can just get the signal—

Something rips through the Force, and Anakin loses his footing. Burning metal scrapes his back as he goes skidding down the pipes, trying to keep his grip on his datapad while also staying between the two poles.

Steam and sweat makes his skin slick, and when he does push his legs against the upper pole, he still slides a little bit before he stops entirely. 

Anakin huffs, and pushes himself up the pole a little bit more. Clones still guard the maintenance halls, and now that he’s further below he can hear them. At least they hadn’t caught him. 

He leans his head against the pipe. The Force had been strange recently. Sudden, bright flames, able to pierce his carefully-shielded mind and disrupt whatever he was doing at the moment. A few times, he had faltered in training as the light side suddenly burst with power. 

There was nothing he would do about it. Most likely, it was a Jedi or padawan suddenly coming into their power. They were reckless. Such a bright presence like that would call the Empire, and they need to get it under control before their location is pinpointed. If they were smart, they’d be in the Outer Rim, or somewhere in the Unknown Regions. Hutts guarded those space, and the Empire, while strong, wouldn’t have as much of a foothold there.

Anakin’s datapad chimes, and he raises it. A pleasant green screen stares back at him. Cody is waiting for him at the bridge, along with the rest of the clone army. His heart beats a bit faster at that. Anger washes over him, and Anakin shoves it down. 

He hasn’t forgotten about him. Sidious is using him as bait, he reminds himself. He wants you to get angry. He wants you to kill Cody.

Anakin shuffles. He’s already done terrible things. What’s killing one clone? A clone that killed his brother? 

He readjusts. It’s bad because Sidious is the one who wants him to kill Cody. It’s bad because Sidious wants it.

Anakin doesn’t quell the roar of anger that rips through him when he thinks of that fucking man, and something in the maintenance hall falls. Anakin closes his eyes.

Unduli’s survival is the first small victory he’s had. It’s a good moment, and he won’t sully it by thinking of Cody or Sidious.

He glances up. Now he just has to get back up the pipes.

* * *

79’s is still the same, and Rex recognizes some of the clones he sees. There’s an overabundance of shinies, and some of the colours they wear are new, but the cantina hasn’t changed.

Rex tucks his helmet under his arm. 79’s only has one exit, but if he needs to run, there’s plenty of tables and chairs he can knock over. Luckily, that doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen. 

His only defining feature was his hair, and Rex had spent the entire hyperspace journey to Imperial Centre dying it black. During Order 66, he shaved it, but now it’s just long enough to pass for a regulation cut.

Now, he just has to find someone he knows.

Coming back to Imperial Centre was mostly likely a mistakes. He knows that. Wolffe had told him more about the bounty on his head—one million Imperial credits alive, half of that dead. It was an absurd amount, and Rex didn’t really know what he’d done to deserve it. Either way, he’d earned himself the ire of Cody’s new commander.

It’ll make moving around Imperial Centre even more difficult. Getting onto the planet was a miracle in the first place. The _Prophet_ was officially a civilian ship, so he travelled through civilian lanes. They’d let him on easily enough, and then it was just a matter of putting on his armour, finding a place to dock the _Prophet_ , and then heading to 79’s.

He just hopes it wasn’t all for nothing.

In the fluorescent blue and purple lights of 79’s, the colours on the clone armour are dimmed and warped. Rex squints a bit, searching for bright 501st blue, when another clone claps him on the shoulder.

Rex spins, his heart pounding. Involuntarily, his hand flies to his hips, where his blasters would normally be.

The clone in front of him follows his movement, and after a few seconds he laughs heartily.

“Calm down, brother. I was just asking if you’ve been to 79’s before,” the clone asks. Rex shakes his head—he’s supposed to be a shiny—and tries to relax.

“Ah. I could tell. What’s your name?”

Shakily, Rex extends a hand, “Uh, B-Bones.”

“Bones?” the other trooper says, raising an eyebrow. 

“Yeah.”

“Force, I wanna hear the story behind that name!” he laughs, shouting to be heard above the din of the cantina. Rex smiles, though his heart is pounding.

“Who are you?”

“Clue. 212th.”

Rex straightens a bit at that. “You’re part of the 212th?”

Clue nods, and Rex scans his armour. Under the light, the golden hues of the 212th look like a bright green. Rex clears his throat, and tries to ignore the way his heart has begun to pound. He’s been in worse situations than this. There’s no reason to be nervous now.

(Then again, he’d never been an enemy of the state).

“Is your commander here?”

“Boil?”

“Uh, yeah. Boil,” Rex answers. Kriff. He’d forgotten that Cody had the 501st now, not the 212th. It’d make things a bit more difficult—he didn’t have the same rapport with Boil that he did with Cody—but he could make due.

And any brother de-chipped was a victory. 

“He’s here,” Clue motions towards a booth at the back of the cantina, “Right over there, if you need to talk to him.”

Rex nods, and pushes himself away from the bar. 

Boil has his helmet off, and is sitting alone at the bar. He has the same goatee he did on Geonosis. Rex swallows a bit of his fear and approaches the clone, who regards him warily. When did he become a commander?

“Mind if I sit?” Rex stops just short of the table, and Boil just stares flatly.

Rex sits down anyways, and puts his helmet on the table. Boil takes a long sip of what Rex guess is Trandoshan ale, and then looks away.

“You’re in command of the 212th, right?” Rex asks, trying his best to sit up straight and emulate the shinies he’d seen before. When Rex was new, so was everyone else. While he wasn’t there for Geonosis, he’d graduated and joined the war effort early enough. 

“Yeah.”

Rex blinks. He had hoped Boil would say more than that. “I thought that Cody commanded the 212th.”

“He was,” Boil replies dully, taking another swig of the ale when he finishes. “Then he got transferred.”

“Do you know where I could find him?”

“Nope.”

Rex adjusts his posture. He’d always been shit at acting. It was a miracle he’d even been able to stall for Ahsoka during Order 66. “I—”

“Look, kid, I don’t know where Cody is. Even if I did, I’d doubt he’d be able to find time to meet with you. The war’s over, but we still have work to do. You’ll meet him sooner or later. Please, just leave me alone.”

Rex quiets down at that. Telling Boil his name is a stupid idea—probably one of the stupidest ideas he’d had in a long time, but it was an idea nonetheless, and it held some merit. Besides, Boil was getting annoyed quick. This might be the only chance he had to meet with Cody.

“Sir, it’s important.”

Boil sits up straight and slams his ale down, raising a hand to point at Rex. “Kid—”

“Just listen to me. It’s important,” Rex emphasizes, raising his eyebrows a bit. Boil looks like he’s about to burst, but then he takes a deep, long-suffering sigh and throws his hands up.

“Fine.”

“Follow me,” Rex picks up his helmet and turns, Boil’s reluctant footsteps following him as they head through the bar.

Fives had pulled this trick, once. Ironically, it was for the same purpose. Rex shoves open the bathroom door, and Boil follows him in. Inside, the hoots and hollers coming from the cantina itself were muffled, leaving only the heavy bass pounding through the floors.

“What the hell is this all about, trooper?” Boil’s voice is tense, and Rex doesn’t blame him.

“Look, I need to talk to Commander Cody. I can’t explain everything here, but I promise it’s important.”

Boil narrows his eyes, and edges slightly backwards. Rex steps forward.

“If it’s important enough for the Commander, then I’m sure you can tell me about it.”

Rex tenses, “I-I can’t. Not here.”

“Then where?’

There has to be somewhere on Imperial Centre that’s safe. If Rex was able to make it to 79’s, then it has to be worth it.

Cody needs to be de-chipped, along with any other trooper they can find. Ahsoka and him had tried to spread the message already. When they left Alderaan, Ahsoka had shoved a datapad under a mattress, with step-by-step instructions on how to remove the chip. She hadn’t had time to write out everything—they’d only received Bail’s alert an hour before the Empire came, and most of that time was spent evacuating. Even then, Rex doesn’t know whether or not the datapad was found. 

Rex can still feel the way his limbs had moved without his control, how every ounce of his experience was utilized against one of his closest friends. No one should ever be subject to that kind of torture, especially not his brothers.

He has to spread the message. Rex doesn’t have access to the troops anymore. Cody does, and he has the influence and respect needed for them to obey him. Ahsoka had emphasized that, telling him that if he was going to Coruscant—Imperial Centre—then he needed to have a tight plan.

She’d also told him level 1313 was a good spot for secret meetings, but he didn’t know that area in the slightest.

“Here. I’ll enter the co-ordinates,” Rex grabbed Boil’s arm, and keyed in the same co-ordinates Kix had given him and General Skywalker. 

He tries not to think too much about Fives.

“And what the hell am I supposed to tell him?” Boil asks, his voice filled with disdain.

“Tell him. . .” Rex began, not really knowing where he was supposed to go. Cody would come if he knew it was him, but Boil couldn’t know it was Rex he was speaking to. He needed something that Cody would respond to, something he would listen to.

Rex sets his jaw. “Tell him it’s about General Kenobi.”

* * *

The hangar looks almost the same as when he’d met Fives in it. 

There’s a couple more scuffs, and the ray shield is still sparking. It has the same black blaster mark it did the day Fives died.

Rex shuffles in his armour. Bail Organa had smuggled it to them. He didn’t ask why, which was probably for the best. It’s new, and Rex almost forgot how uncomfortable the new armour could be.

Cody and Boil should be here by now. They have to come. Rex needs confirmation that Cody's alive, that he hasn't been taken like the rest of them had. That

He won’t have to be on Imperial Centre for much longer. Once he meets with Cody and Boil, he can go back to Dantooine. Wolffe was still there, helping set up the new base, but Ahsoka was gone.

She’d been vague when she left. Told him that there was something wrong in the Force, and she needed to figure it out. Ahsoka hadn’t told him where she was going, or when she’d be back. If she’d even be back in the first place.

Rex looks around the hangar. They’d removed Fives’ body from the hangar when they left, but he can still see it. His brother, shot down like a rabid animal. 

Fives had been right. Rex presses his lips into a tight line. When he’d told General Skywalker and Rex about the chip, neither of them had believed them. Skywalker was almost blind in his loyalty to the then Chancellor, and he considered the conspiracy to be unfathomable. 

If he had listened, would the Republic still stand? Skywalker was a formidable Jedi, and a good person. Ahsoka told him that she believed he was out there somewhere, but Ahsoka didn’t see the way she reacted when the bond broke. They were in the middle of burying the clones, and something inside of Ahsoka had simply broken. 

He doesn’t need to remember that right now. 

Rex was careful when he went into the hangar. No probe droids, and even if they were there, it wasn’t like he was wanted. He looked like another shiny. Still, the years he spent fighting meant that Rex was searching for exits, trying to create a mental map of the room before Cody and Boil arrive.

There’s plenty of stacked boxes in the hangar, and if he really needs to Rex can knock them over before he runs. It shouldn’t come to that, though.

Cody and Boil’s footsteps are loud in the painfully quiet room, and Rex tries not to let his fear get to him. There’s no room for error here. 

“Commander,” he half-jokingly salutes Cody as he rounds the corner. The commander doesn’t have his helmet on, so Rex can see his face and his scar, but that’s not what he pays attention to. Instead of mellow 212th gold, his armour is painted in the bright hues of the 501st. That much makes sense, except Cody’s armour is entirely different in design. The helmet is tucked under his arm, so Rex can’t see much, but he can still make out the small mouth, the two separated lenses over the eyes.

He doesn’t focus on it for that long, because Cody, his _brother_ , is both alive and standing right in front of him. It takes a lifetime of military training to stop him from rushing forward and hugging his brother. After, he’d assumed Cody was dead. General Kenobi was the best the Jedi had to offer, and killing him couldn't have been easy. Emotionally or physically, he notes. Cody's eyes are a little more sunken, and his skin, normally warm brown, is pale. He looks like shit.

“Who are you, exactly?” Cody asks, his mouth puckered and sour.

“CT-7567.” Rex responds, the numerical code tumbling out of his mouth half on instinct. “Rex.”

Something clatters elsewhere in the hangar, but Rex doesn’t pay it any mind. He watches Cody, who doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Boil has stepped back, and Cody is just staring. The commander opens his mouth to speak at least three different times before he stops and closes his eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he croaks out. 

“I know,” Rex responds.

“No, I mean you really shouldn’t be here, Rex. Lord Vader has it out for you.”

“I don’t care. This is important,” Rex steps forwards. He can’t make out Cody’s expression in the dark, but he knows him well enough.

Rex reaches forwards and pulls Cody into a stiff hug. He pats Cody’s back, and the other trooper shakes. 

They stand for a few seconds, and then Rex pulls back. Cody smiles slightly, but he casts his eyes around like he expects Lord Vader himself to come bursting out of the hangar at any moment.

“Y-you said you knew something about General Kenobi.” Cody says. His voice trembles at that.

He’d been close with General Kenobi, and Ahsoka said that he might be dead as well. With Cody’s promotion, it was basically just confirmation of what they already knew. General Kenobi was most likely dead.

And Cody blamed himself.

Cody doesn’t know about the chips. Wolffe had told him about how it felt to have the chip removed after the fact. He said that you still had the memory of shooting your general, of watching them fall out of the sky, but you didn’t feel anything. Like you moved without thinking about it, and you didn’t feel at all. Nothing happy, nothing sad. And when the chip came out, all of those emotions hit you at once. 

“Yeah,” Rex swallows, his eyes flicking to a very confused Boil, “I do. Kinda.”

Cody nods, and Rex has to think for a moment. How is he supposed to put this. When Fives tried to tell him and General Skywalker, he’d done it in such a way that General Skywalker thought he was insane. Rex had too, for a time. So how the hell is he supposed to explain it to Cody in a way that actually makes sense?

“General Kenobi wasn’t a traitor,” he starts, watching the way Cody’s eyes crinkle around the corner when he speaks. The dark hangar makes it difficult to see anything, but he knows Cody well enough to read him.

“None of the Jedi were.” 

Boil scoffs from the corner. “Rex, what the hell are you saying?”

“I’m saying that it was all a ploy to dispose of the Jedi. I can explain, you just have to listen.”

Cody shuffles, and one of his hands strays uncomfortably close to blasters. Rex tenses, but he keeps himself still. 

“The Chancellor is a Sith Lord.”

“What?”

“Like Dooku?”

Cody and Boil speak one after the other. Boil turns towards the exit, but Cody holds up a hand before he turns back to Rex.

“You better had some damn good evidence.”

“I do,” Rex nodded, his heart beginning to pound. “On Mandalore, with Maul, he told us about Sidious. Obi-Wan mentioned that Sidious created the war. Played both sides of it from the beginning.”

“That doesn’t prove anything. The Sith could be anyone,” Boil points out. 

“Look at who’s on top now. The Chancellor came out of this war with more power than he had before, and complete control over the Empire.”

Cody narrows his eyes. “Go on.”

“Cody, I told you about Fives, right?” Rex looks to his brother for confirmation, and Cody nods. 

“Fives told us that the Chancellor was involved in a plot to-to destroy the Jedi. We didn’t believe him, but what if he was right the entire time?”

“There’s still no karking evidence!” Boil’s voice rises to a shout, and Rex frowns. There was so much he had to explain. 

Sidious was smart. They hadn’t gone back over every piece of his plan, but even Order 66 was devastatingly complex, to the point where explaining it to someone with little prior knowledge was damn near impossible.

“There is, if you’d just listen to me,” Rex speaks through tight lips, practically hissing out every syllable.

“The inhibitor chips in our head are meant to make us less aggressive, but what if they just make us more complicit?”

“Rex, this all sounds. . .” Cody trails off, and Rex frowns. He can’t lose Cody’s support.

“I-I know. Trust me, I know. But please. Just listen.”

“The chips in our head had Order 66 built into them. That way, when the time came, the Chancellor could order us to kill the Jedi, and we wouldn’t be able to resist. Every Jedi was surrounded by clones, and they weren’t expecting us to kill them. It’s the perfect plan.”

Cody’s eyes drop to the ground, and Rex knows him well enough to watch as the gears in his head begin to turn. Cody’s one of the smartest people Rex knows. He can piece it together, he just needs a few seconds to think about it.

“Rex, you can’t possibly believe that,” Boil steps closer to him. His armour catches a bit of light, and the gold paint looks as if it’s alight.

“I do.”

“When Fives removed his chip, he became more aggressive. He tried to kill the Ch—the Emperor,” Cody says, shuffling. His new armour clicks as he moves, and the sound is sharper than it normally is. Rex huffs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

He doesn’t have time to think. Rex pushes his hair up, revealing the thin scar marring his scalp. “I removed my chip.”

Boil narrows his eyes, and slowly starts to step away. 

Cody snatches the other clone’s arm, and wrenches him forward. Boil’s shoes grind against the metal floor, creating a loud, high pitched squeal. Boil stares at Rex the way you stare at a zoo animal. 

“I removed my chip,” he repeats, “and I’m fine. They don’t make us less aggressive, and they don’t stop us from being independent. They just control us.”

Boil and Cody exchange a glance, and Boil tightens his lips. Cody thinks for a second. Rex shifts his weight, preparing to flee if he has to. Cody is logical, Cody is rational, but Cody isn’t Cody right now. He’s just another clone.

Cody swallows. “So what are we supposed to do about it?”

Rex grins, happy he’s even considering this. It’s a step closer to where they need to be, even if neither of them trust him right now. As long as they get the chip out, they'll be fine. He doesn't have to lose anymore brothers to the Empire.

“Get them out.”

Boil snorts, and Cody grips his arm a bit harder. “How the hell are we supposed to do that?”

Rex clears his throat. “A level five atomic brain scan. The droid performing the scan will find a tumour. Get it removed an-and you’ll understand everything. You’ll realize I’m telling the truth.”

Cody’s eyes roam over Rex, picking apart every single detail. “And what if you’re not?”

“Then it’s a risk you have to take.”

* * *

Sidious does not bother briefing Anakin before he sends the Senate pod up. He stands behind his master, a symbol of all the Empire’s might. Next to him, Sidious looks like he’s rotting. Mas Amedda casts a few pointed looks at Anakin, but he doesn’t pay much attention to any of them. 

As the pod ascends, the Senators cheer. Thousands of beings, from thousands of systems all over the Empire, cheering for the man who had kick-started a genocide. Anakin is lucky that his face is covered, because the expression on his face is positively obscene.

Senator Organa claps for the Emperor as well, but when Anakin reaches out, he can feel the discordant notes in his Force signature. Lying like this angers him, pains him. But Organa is a good liar.

Unconsciously, Anakin’s eyes slide over to where Padmé used to sit.

The new Senator of Naboo is a man with bright red hair. He dresses plainly, and when Sidious ascends, he smiles broadly. Unlike Bail, his cheers are genuine. 

Anakin frowns. His appointment to her seat is a disgrace. Padmé wouldn’t have stood for something like this. She’d want Sidious to be held accountable, for proper justice to be administered.

But Padmé isn’t here right now—no matter how much he wants her to be—and Anakin is. Sidious raises a hand, and the Senate stops their applause. Through their bond, Anakin feels the slightest amount of pleasure burn through the man.

Anakin meets Bail’s eyes. Though the Senator doesn’t look at him, his attention is drawn to Anakin anyway. He focuses on the Senator’s signature, digging deep than the obvious. Did he get Anakin’s message? 

He’d sent it to Bail without a name, and Anakin rigged it so Bail wouldn’t be able to trace it. He’d be wary at first. For all Bail knows, Anakin’s message was just a trap. But he needs to know if Bail transferred it onto his agents. Someone had to be going after Unduli. 

Sidious begins his speech, and Anakin forces himself to withdraw from Bail.

“Senators of the Galactic Empire!” Sidious cries, “Today, I stand before you to announce the formation and deployment of a new military force. One specialized in hunting Jedi.”

Another cheer goes up at that, and Anakin shivers. This is how it had happened. So many senators blindly following Sidious as he led them deeper and deeper into corruption. 

“The Imperial Inquisition is an elite group that will track down the last remnants of the treasonous Jedi Order, and deal with them accordingly,” Sidious grins, and Anakin’s stomach turns. 

It would be so easy to kill him now. His lightsaber hung at his hip—he could just drive it through Sidious’ heart, and no one would be able to stop him. 

He shoves those thoughts away. He’d be killed before he could even try it, and the government would fall. 

Why does he care? His family is gone. There’s no one they can hurt anymore.

He cares because he has to. There’s no one else left to do that, so he will. Anakin closes his eyes, and thinks of all the people in the galaxy who have suffered under Sidious. He cares because he had been one of them, once. He cares because no one else will.

“The Inquisition will be comprised of our most loyal clone troopers, and headed by specially-trained Inquisitors. Our brave Inquisitors are specially trained to combat Jedi, and carry weapons capable of fighting them,” Sidious pauses, and a chorus of claps rises up. 

The Inquisitors are another issue altogether. The Grand Inquisitor had risen to power within the ranks of the military, but the clones were not particularly partial to him, from what Anakin could tell. The first batch of Inquisitors had been trained and deployed. 

First Sister, the Zabrak female, was already off on her own personal mission. Second Brother had been killed during training, and Trilla was set to take his spot. Their newest acquisition had been formally inducted into the Inquisition a few days earlier, but Anakin hadn’t met them yet.

“The Imperial Inquisition will be under the purview of Lord Vader,” Sidious motioned to Anakin, and he felt the gaze of the Senate shift onto him, “and he will oversee their progress.”

“The Inquisition will protect our great Empire from the remaining Jedi, and ensure that the galaxy will never see their tyranny again.”  Sidious’ voice is drowned out by the pulse of blood in Anakin’s ears. Padmé’s killer is right there. It would be so, so easy to just destroy him now, and be done with it. 

Anakin turns away from Sidious, and smothers his anger. Not yet. There is still so much work he has to do.

The pod shudders, and slowly starts to slide down. Sidious lowers his arms, and the loud cheers of the senators follow them into the ground. 

Mas Amedda steps off of the pod almost immediately, and Sidious follows him. His bones crack as he moves, and the satisfaction rolling off of him makes Anakin lightheaded.

“Are you alright, Lord Vader?” Sidious asks, his sickly sweet voice floating through the air. 

“Of course, my master. Just. . . disoriented.”

Sidious laughs, and Mas Amedda’s throaty chuckle joins him. “Yes, yes. It can be quite an experience.”

Anakin drops into a low bow, and then excuses himself from the senate chambers. He doesn’t need to be here longer than necessary. 

“Excuse me, Lord Vader?”

Anakin stops dead. He's tired. He just wants to go back to the palace and train, beat something up, and get the anger out of him. But he doesn't. Anyone brave enough to approach him is worth talking to, and at the very least he might gain some insight into whatever was going on in the Senate.

“What is it?” he turns, and the person staring back at him is not a Senator. In fact, he’s not even sure who they are. They wear black armour, and their face is covered by a sleek black mask. They extend a hand.

“I’m Third Sister. I’m the newest Inquisitor,” she says. Anakin hesitantly shakes her hand, his gaze drawn to the lightsaber hanging from her hip. She’s short, and while the distortion from her mask hides it, her voice is too high for her to be anything but a child. A padawan during the war.

“I see.”

“I’m here about your bounty on the clone CT-7567,” Third Sister stands with her arms clasped behind her back. She pronounces Rex’s code with intent, each vowel precisely formed. Anakin narrows his eyes.

Even just hearing Rex’s fucking code makes his heart beat a bit faster. He bites his tongue and closes his eyes, trying to smother the deep, burning thing inside of him, but he only feeds it. Power dances through his veins, and Anakin doesn’t stop it.

“I was monitoring some of C—Imperial Centre’s lower levels—for Jedi—and while I was going through some video footage from a probe droid, I found this.”

She presents a datapad, and holds it in front of him. Anakin takes it, and taps the screen. The audio is low, but he makes out every word perfectly.

It’s grainy footage, taken from behind a bunch of boxes. One clone already stands in the hangar, his helmet off, displaying regulation black hair and a face weathered by war. Two others join him, and Anakin clutches the datapad a bit harder as Cody’s scarred face comes into the frame.

“Commander,” the first clone salutes, and Cody glances at his companion.

“Who are you, exactly?” Cody asks.

“CT-7567. Rex.” 

Anakin sees red, and shoves the datapad back at Third Sister. “When was this?”

“Footage came in a few minutes ago, dated about ten minutes ago. I already have a platoon of troopers and a shuttle prepared, if you’d like to depart with us.”

Anakin lets Third Sister lead him to the hangar, trying to smother the anger tearing through him. Rex shouldn't have come to Imperial Centre. 

* * *

Third Sister drops down onto the platform before he does, her soft steps instantly overshadowed by Anakin’s much louder ones. 

Rex’s presence blazes in the hangar, and Anakin has his lightsaber in hand before he can even really think. 

That man killed Ahsoka. Cody had killed Obi-Wan, and now he could kill them both. Cody was planted by Sidious, and Anakin could resist the bait as long as he was a good commander. But when he conspired with known defectors, Anakin had an excuse to kill him, and he was going to take it.

Anakin steps into the hangar, and the voices of the clones stop. Good. They know he’s here.

The metal ground makes every one of Anakin’s steps louder, and he relishes in the fear that curls around the clones. It’s the same hangar Rex and him once found Fives in. 

Anakin steps around a pile of boxes, and then the clones are standing directly in front of him. Rex steps back, and Anakin ignites his lightsaber and charges forwards.

Rex turns and runs, pushing over a stack of crates as he does. They come clattering down, and Anakin flicks some of them away as he does. Third Sister hops the crates, and pulls some of them down in front of Rex before he can keep going.

The hangar is dark, but Anakin pinpoints Rex’s unique signature with ease. He served with the man for years. He knows that signature the way he knew Ahsoka’s, the way he knew Padmé’s. 

He reaches out with a hand, focusing on Rex’s midsection, and _pulls_. Rex slows in the middle of his run, and a garbled gasp tumbles out from his traitorous mouth. 

Anakin slows, feeling Rex’s pure terror flood his veins. He’s going to pay for what he did to his padawan. 

The Force cries, and Anakin turns just in time to deflect a single blaster bolt coming from behind him. His grip on Rex fails, and Third Sister shoots after the clone, as fast as a blaster bolt.

He’s not losing Rex. This revenge will not be denied to him. He’s going to make him pay for what he did, and nothing will get in the way of that. But when he turns, the joints of his too-stiff suit crack, biting at his skin, and Anakin falters. Rex’s presence grows dim, yet Third Sister follows.

Another shot, easily deflected.

Another, and another, and another—all deflected, and coming from an unknown source. His troopers file out to follow Rex, as he had directed them, leaving only one person—one _clone_ —who would have fired those shots.

Cody.

The barrel of his blaster smokes, and he keeps firing even as Anakin advances.

He’d side with Rex. Of course he’d side with Rex. They were both clones, and they had been close, just like their generals. He’d killed Obi-Wan, and now he was trying to kill Anakin.

Anakin pulls Cody’s blaster from his hands and crushes it with the Force, sending it scattering across the metal floor.  He stops in front of the commander, who does not move. Cody’s chest heaves, and there might be tears in his eyes. Anakin doesn’t pay attention. He doesn’t care.

“Why?”

“Wh-Wha—”

“Why did you help Rex? He betrayed the Empire,” Anakin spits out, circling Cody. He’s not letting this one go. Anakin has been patient. He’s given Cody enough chances to explain why he killed Obi-Wan, and he hasn’t taken any of them. Certainly, the clone must be defective. That’s the only explanation for such erratic behaviour. 

Cody’s throat bobs as he swallows, “My first General taught me that loyalty is everything. H—”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Anakin doesn’t want to hear it. The words sit unformed in Cody’s mouth.

Power floods his veins, and Anakin revels in it. Why had he pushed this away? It’d given everything he had needed to get his revenge. Cody’s hands scrabble at his neck, searching for hands that aren’t there. 

Anakin keeps his arm outstretched, his fingers twitching as he tightens his grip on Cody’s neck. He applies more pressure, and Cody’s eyes are just about ready to pop out of his head. His legs kick and flail, and Anakin presses harder. He doesn’t get to talk about Obi-Wan as if he cared. He doesn’t get to think about Obi-Wan, and he doesn’t get to use him to make a point.

Anakin presses a bit further, his muscles so tense that he felt like he might snap at any moment, and then lets go. Cody’s body falls to the floor, and Anakin is left alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i absolutely despise this chapter and will most likely rewrite it in the near future but im posting it anyway because i suck
> 
> POSTED 10/06/2020


	7. The Missing Piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin deals with Rex.

Third Sister hasn’t ever hunted a clone before. She’s ran from them, and fought with them, but hunting them down is an entirely different matter. They’re nothing like droids.

She guesses that was probably why the Republic commissioned so many of them in the first place. Creative thinking, she’d been told. It made them _so_ much better than droids.

Third Sister uses a hand to steady herself on the building’s edge. The crowd below her is comprised mostly of clones, still wearing their armour from the war, and miscellaneous Imperial citizens. 

CT-7567 is somewhere among them. Third Sister creeps along the edge of the building, thankful for the dark armour the Inquisition gave her. It’s so much better than the cloth robes the Jedi gave her, even if the uniform does have a few unnecessary embellishments.

She’d also be lying if it didn’t make her feel very, very cool.

Her armour helps her blend into the dark backdrop of the city, and it gives her the anonymity she needs to survey the crowd. All of the clones have a unique Force signature, but she hadn’t had enough time to latch onto CT-7567—what had the other clone called him in the recording? Rex?—before he had escaped.

She’d gone after him, of course, but he’d blended easily into the crowd. Benefit of being a clone, she guesses. 

But he doesn’t blend in entirely. He has the same regulation crew-cut, same black hair, but he’s nervous. The rest of the clones are at ease, completely secure in their city. They’re supposed to be here, and they act like it.

Rex doesn’t. He’s antsy, and it makes him stick out. Third Sister stays low from her vantage point, and slowly stalks forwards. The hum of the crowd drowns out her senses, but she focuses on Rex. 

The clone is ramrod straight, his muscles entirely too tense to be normal. His helmet is on, but Third Sister is sure it’s him. She’d never met him during the war, never knew what he did to piss off Lord Vader so much, but if she could capture him, her place in the Imperial hierarchy would change.

She’d been scanning Imperial Centre for him ever since she gained access to the Empire’s system. If she could find him, it’d curry favour with her new master. It’d secure her place in this new Empire, and right now, that was all she needed.

Rex turns away from the rest of the crowd, and Third Sister follows. Her steps are intentionally quiet, and she hops across buildings with ease only a Force-sensitive can have. 

He veers off from the rest of the crowd, into a less-populated alleyway. Is he working with someone?  He can’t be. There’s very few people who would trust a clone, and the only clones who would trust him were back at the abandoned hangar.

Rex’s head suddenly snaps up, and Third Sister shrinks back. She wills the Force to hide her, and, begrudgingly, it does. She wraps it around her like a cloak, and squeezes her eyes shut in an instinctual move.

He keeps walking, and she scurries forwards. Third Sister can’t afford to fail now, not when she’s risking so much. Lord Vader’s anger at this clone was immense, and if she failed in capturing him—

Well, she didn’t need to think about things that wouldn’t happen. Third Sister cracks an eye open. Rex rounds the corner of another street, and she jumps forward, onto the building across from her. 

She falls a bit short of the edge, and her hands scrabble at the metal railings on the side. With a loud grunt, Third Sister pulls herself up and over the railing, her muscles protesting a bit as she did. 

She jumps again, searching for the clone amongst the bright lights of Imperial Centre. Bright white clone armour sticks out in the dark underbelly of the city, and Rex sticks out within the clones. He’s too experienced, too cautious. It marks him as well as any paint.

Third Sister is right above him now. Rex moves carefully, and the crowd swerves to avoid bumping into him. While she could jump down right now, it’d be hard to contain him when they were surrounded by civvies. And if she lost him, she’d lose her head. 

Lord Vader had barely been to the Fortress Inquisitorius, and she hadn’t met him before the Senate, but if he was anything like the Grand Inquisitor, he wouldn’t take a failure of this magnitude lightly.

Rex moves into an alleyway, glancing around to ensure no one’s there. Third Sister follows, her steps muffled by the chatter of the crowd nearby. This is good. If she can just get him a bit farther away from everything else. . . 

Rex stops, and takes off his helmet. His face is distorted by the bright lights coming from all around him, but he’s definitely a clone. She can recognize that much. He raises his arm, and speaks into a mounted comlink. Her lightsaber hums at her side, its eagerness seeming to dance through the Force.

Third Sister jumps, the air rushing in her ears as she does, and lands on Rex with a loud thump. Something cracks. 

She scrambles towards his head. He’s bigger than her by a large margin, but she has the Force on her side, and a new fuck-you lightsaber. She’ll be fine.

If she can just get him in a chokehold, he’ll pass out soon enough and then she’ll get someone to come pick him up. Third Sister places her hands on his shoulders, and tries to straddle his back before he can start resisting.

She fails in that aspect. The clone—who she may have underestimated—throws his elbow back, and hits her in the soft spot between her ribs and her stomach. She splutters back, coughing a bit, and the clone squirms out from beneath her. He pulls himself to his feet, and Third Sister launches herself at him. 

She latches onto his back, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his torso. She splays her palm out, her forearm still tight around his neck, and her lightsaber flies from her belt to her hand.

Keeping her grip on his neck, Third Sister releases her legs and goes slack. Dead weight drives Rex down, and she knees him between his legs to keep him that way. The clone is on his knees, now, and she has the advantage. Third Sister pulls his head backwards and ignites her bright red blade, holding it close to his neck. 

Rex’s heartbeat is so strong she can feel it, but she doesn’t let his fear stop her. He won’t risk moving. He’d fought with Jedi, he must’ve seen what a lightsaber could do to someone.

Third Sister deactivates her weapon and slams its blunt hilt into the back of Rex’s head, and the clone trooper goes limp.

She raises her wrist towards her helmet and presses two fingers to the comlink. “Lord Vader, I have your clone.”

* * *

When Rex wakes up, everything is red. The ray-shield separating him from the rest of the room emits a low buzz, and it makes everything on the other side look violently red.

Force, his head hurts. He raises a hand to the space between his neck and head, and hisses when his fingers brush a particularly sore spot. That bruise was going to cover his head for the next few weeks.

If he survived the next few weeks, anyway.

He stands, and the world spins for a few moments. Rex has been stripped down to his blacks, and he’s in a standard Republic cell. Empire, now. There’s a single rectangular bench squeezed into the back of the cell, and a buzzing ray shield to prevent him from getting out.

Through the ray shield, he squints. There’s someone on the other side. Not Vader—too small for that—but dressed in black and wearing a mask.

The same bounty hunter who caught him. He narrows his eyes, and the black-clothed person shifts. 

“Please don’t try to escape.”

“Why not?”

“I just ate, and I don’t want to chase you around on a full stomach,” the hunter leans against the wall on the other side of the ray shield. They don’t even look at him.

Rex slowly walks backwards, keeping his eyes on the thing sitting across from him. He sits on the bench, and relaxes as much as he can in the cell.

“Does the Empire give all of its hunters lightsabers?” Rex asks. If the Empire had such a surplus of lightsabers, then it would present a true challenge for anyone going against them. Lightsaber combat was fast, dangerous, and effective. He’d seen General Skywalker and Ahsoka engage in battles against Dooku, or Ventress, countless times during the war. Ahsoka could deal with them, but he couldn’t. 

“Only the good ones,” the hunter says, tilting their head to the side. “What’d you do to piss off Lord Vader?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Rex stares at the hunter. They don’t respond. 

There has to be a way out of here. Separatists had managed breakouts often enough, and the clones were superior to them in almost every way. There had to be something he was missing. He just needed a way out. 

Rex’s eyes scan the cell, and land on a thin, rectangular vent placed just near the corner of the room.

So that was how the Separatists had done it. Such an obvious weakness, placed above the bench, and easily accessible. He’d just have to get it open. They hadn’t bound his arms or legs, so he wouldn’t have to worry about getting out of any restraints. It was all so easy.

Almost too easy.

He scrutinizes the vent a bit more. They couldn’t have overlooked something that obvious. It might’ve been intentional, placed to lure out any potential escapees.

Fuck. That’s going to make this a lot more difficult. Escaping through the vent seems like theeasiest option, but first he has to decide whether or not it’s even a true option. If he did escape with the vent, he’d be flying blind.

Then there was the matter of the hunter. 

“Why are you still here?” he stands again, walking over to the ray shield to try and get a better look.

“As a guard.”

“So you’re going to watch me the entire time?” Rex raises one of his eyebrows. The hunter pauses.

“I mean, yeah,” they shrug. “Until Lord Vader gets here, at least.”

Rex pulls back from the shield. “Lord Vader’s coming?”

“Yeah. So if you have some last words, or a will hidden somewhere in that suit of yours—” the hunter waves to Rex’s blacks, “—you should probably tell me.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Rex says, uses his best commander voice. The hunter’s helmeted head suddenly snaps up, and they scramble up and off the floor. Heavy footsteps echo from outside the cell. 

The door snaps open, revealing a behemoth of a man. Rex stays standing, but everything in him screams at him to get away from this man. The air in the room suddenly seems thicker, and Rex can barely breathe.

“You are dismissed, Inquisitor.” Vader—because surely that must be who this is—raises a hand, and the Inquisitor scurries out of the room. The door shuts behind them, and Vader stares at him.

Rex meets his gaze with equal intensity. This man had aided in the fall of the Republic, in Order 66. Rex won’t be cowed by him. He will not be another casualty to add to the list.

“CT-7567.”

“Rex.”

The air in the room grows thicker, as if it is smoke, and Rex tries to keep his breathing even. Vader takes a step towards the ray-shield.

“Why did you do it?”

Rex backs up unconsciously. Vader’s voice is deep, and it seems to take up the entire room. But when he spoke, he sounded as if he was on the verge of tears.

“Did what?”

Vader’s fists curl, and he takes a moment before he responds, “You know as well as I do what I meant.”

“I truly don’t.”

“You served with her. You watched her grow up. You were one of her closest friends. Why did you do it?”

What the fuck is he talking about? Rex squints. He’d never met Vader before, much less his family. He had to be mistaken.

“I don’t—”

“Ahsoka. Tano.” 

Rex recoils. He thought Rex had killed her. Yes, he had come close—too close—but he hadn’t killed her. She’s still alive, the Empire just doesn’t know it. And he’s not about to blow her cover. He’d almost betrayed her once (he thinks of his hands on the pistols, the tears slipping down his face as he tried not to cry, trying to get his mouth to move, to tell her about Fives) but he won’t do it again. Not this time.

“You’re an Imperial. You should know,” Rex spits out the word Imperial. Vader’s face is covered by a black, skull-like mask, and his mannerisms are entirely hidden by the thing. Its surface reflects the red ray-shield back at Rex, and he can see himself—though distorted—in the shiny black helmet.

Vader paces back and forth in front of the stall. His hands clutch a lightsaber. Rex shifts his weight, trying to calm his racing heart. 

“Tell me.”

Rex thinks. The Empire is under the impression Ahsoka is dead. He can’t blow that cover, so he has to play along. They dropped her lightsabers at the crash site, along with the helmets of the other clones. 

Rex summons all of the acting skills he’d learned in the war. While admittedly not much, he had learned enough to pull this off. He can’t fail. 

“You think I had a choice?”

Vader goes still, and Rex can’t tell if he’s made a mistake or not. Vader’s entire line of questioning is idiotic. He knew just as well as Rex did why he had done it. Rex hadn’t had a choice, and Vader should’ve known that. Was that why he’d come here? To taunt Rex?

“You think I wanted to kill her?” Rex yells. “You think your chip let me decide?”

Rex doesn’t need to fake his anger. What Palpatine had done to the clones was inhumane. It was unfair, it was wrong, and Rex knows that. He just wishes his brothers knew it too.

Vader’s mask tilts in a way Rex could almost call curious. For a few seconds, the Sith just stands there, his limbs shaking.

His hand shifts, and Rex can make out the design on the lightsaber. Silver, with two elongated shafts running up the side. Ahsoka’s. Vader had found it—he’d been to the crash site, he’d seen the graves there.

“You lie,” Vader’s words echo around the room, and Rex shifts, preparing to start yelling, when Vader turns. He steps through the door, and Rex is left baffled as the pneumatic seals on the door hiss shut.

* * *

The interrogation with Rex had been nothing but a waste of time. The clone refused to answer for his actions, and Anakin should’ve killed him right then and there. If he wouldn’t tell him what he wanted, then he could’ve just ended everything with a simple slash of his lightsaber.

But he hadn’t. Anakin’s helmet releases from the rest of the suit, and he throws it at one of the many walls in his own quarters. He’d been so willing to kill Cody. Why was it different with Rex.

(Maybe it’s because he can still remember Christosphis, and Yerbana, and the numerous other battles where Rex had fought by his side, as an equal, as his captain. A man he could trust with his marriage, and a man that had been unswervingly loyal.

Maybe it’s because he can still see that man).

Anakin ruins a hand through his hair, and walks towards the viewport. The _Devastator_ is in orbit just above Imperial Centre, and the deep tapestry of space sprawls out in front of him. In the viewport glass, his own reflection stares back at him.

He looks like shit. His eyelids are lined with red, and his lips are chapped and slightly bloody. Anakin is paler than a fucking Umbaran. 

Anakin focuses on the stars in front of them. He’d sworn that he’d see them all, so long ago. When he was a little slave boy on Tatooine, Anakin thought of other worlds as safe havens, ones without violence, without sand, without slavery.

He knows better now. Slavery is the one constant across all the planets he’s visited. It just has different names. 

Anakin had been born a slave, freed, and then enslaved all over again. First to the Jedi, and now to Sidious. 

He unclips his lightsaber from his belt and stares down at the hilt. If he had any sense at all, he would kill Rex now. He’d wipe him from the galaxy, and avenge his padawan. 

But he just couldn’t. 

Anakin frowns. What had Rex said to him? Something about the inhibitor chips—more propaganda, he thinks—and something about not having a choice. Nothing about Ahsoka. Nothing useful, anyway.

It sits with him, though. Anakin replays every moment of the interaction, every micro-expression Rex had made. He hadn’t bothered to look at the man through the Force. He was so sure of his conclusion, so sure that Rex had betrayed Ahsoka, but with the way the clone had talked, he made it seem like he didn’t have a choice.

Maybe, Rex was still there. Maybe he still had someone left.

Half on a whim and half on hope, Anakin calls one of his many datapads towards him. Rex had talked about the chips, and while it might’ve just been fed to him by the loyalists, there’s only a few places where Anakin has ever heard those chips mentioned.

This is one of them.

The Empire still has all of the data the Republic did. While the holonet had been scrubbed clean, the military databases are another story entirely. As the supreme commander of the military, Anakin has access to all of that.

He puts that to use. 

Each individual clone trooper has their own file, even the dead ones. Fives’ profile is no different, except for the fact that he has another file attached entirely. A dossier, with everything the Kaminoans had on his death and the circumstances around it. 

Fives’ face flashes in front of him, and Anakin scrolls to the next image. A medical readout, with a large circle pointing to a red dot on a human skull. The inhibitor chip. He scrolls to the next image. It’s of Tup, and Anakin frowns a bit at that. They should’ve known when Tup turned. If a clone could kill a Jedi, then the same must be true for the rest of them.

But Tup had been near hysteric after the fact. He hadn’t been aware of his actions. They had to restrain him. 

Anakin shoves that thought out of his mind, and scrolls to the next image. General Tiplar, her yellow head-tails streaming behind her. Next. Another medical image, highlighting the same place on a different human brain. Next.

A flickery image of Nala Se pops up on the screen, and Anakin squints. He remembered Obi-Wan talking about the Fives situation with him. As the trooper’s commanding officer, Anakin was briefed on the Jedi Council’s decisions. He’d agreed with them, but he hadn’t ever seen this recording.

“An independent investigation confirmed that the clone trooper CT-5555 experienced a malfunction with his inhibitor chip,” Nala Se’s airy voice fills Anakin’s quarters, and he leans closer to the datapad. The blue light is the brightest thing in the room.

“Both the Senate committee and the Jedi Council have accepted these findings. However, a grievance report was filed by CT-7567.”

Anakin frowns. He hadn’t handled any of the 501st’s paperwork—he’d never been very good at it— so he’s not surprised he hasn’t seen the report before. When it first came in, he'd passed it along. But he'd never watched it, and to his knowledge it had just been a basic report on the situation at hand. Not a grievance report. Why hadn't Rex told him?

Anakin swipes, and the report pops up as sealed. 

Why would it be sealed? If it was just a report, why would it be locked? He shakes his head, trying not to think to hard about everything, and keys in his passcode, 8-1-0-8. 

Rex’s face fills the hologram, still wearing his ARC-trooper uniform. His helmet is off, and Anakin knows him well enough to read the tiny crinkles around his eyes, the way his shoulders are set. That was just how he’d been after Fives’ death. Anakin hadn’t read into it, but maybe he should’ve.

Maybe there was a reason Rex killed Ahsoka. Maybe he was still good. Maybe Anakin had someone left he cared about. Maybe there was a chance that he wasn't wholly alone right now.

Rex begins to speak, “I already know this report is going to fall on deaf ears, but I owe it to Fives to record what I saw. I’m not sure I believe it myself, but there’s a possibility that the inhibitor chips the Kaminoans put inside of us have a purpose that we don’t yet fully understand.”

The datapad falls from his hands, and Anakin stands still. He turns it around in his head. It made enough sense. 

What had Fives said about the chips when they found him in the hangar? 

_“It’s in all of us, every clone. Organic chips built into our genetic code to make us do whatever someone wants, even kill the Jedi.”_

He hadn’t believed him then. But it all made sense.

The Jedi and the clones had become close during the war. To have all the clones, even ones as close to their Jedi as Rex was to Ahsoka, turn against their commanders was impossible. There would have to be ones who were too bonded, too influenced by their emotions, to kill their friends.

But inhibitor chips—chips to control the clones, make them follow the order without question—those would work. They’d eliminate any resistance. They’d make the clones obedient, and when the Chancellor executed the order, the clones followed. They hadn’t questioned it because they couldn’t.

Anakin grabs his helmet and waves the door open.

* * *

Cody’s neck is covered by sterile white bandages, and Anakin tries his hardest to ignore them. If he’s right—which he’s sure he is—then Cody hadn’t meant to kill Obi-Wan. It had just happened, without his control and without his consent.

Anakin sets the datapad he recovered from Alderaan onto the table next to Cody, and carefully reads through the first instruction. 

_1\. FIND A MEDICAL DROID THAT IS CAPABLE OF ADVANCED NEUROSURGERY, ALONG WITH A ROOM EQUIPPED WITH HIGH-LEVEL BRAIN SCANNERS._

The room is one of the best-equipped on the ship—Cody is a commander, after all—but it takes a bit of looking before Anakin finds a medical droid. It’s a 2-1B model, all humanoid limbs and dark metal skin. It activates with a whir, and Anakin doesn’t even let it start its introductory spiel.

_2\. GET A LEVEL FIVE ATOMIC BRAIN SCAN._

“I want a level five atomic brain scan to be performed on this clone,” he snaps. The droid whirs, and lumbers over to the wall, where it plugs in. 

Around Cody, the room starts to whir. Objects of all colours, sizes, and shapes, move around his unconscious form. Anakin backs up, letting the droid do its work. He never paid much attention to surgical processes during the war. He was always too focused on whoever was on the table. 

Now, he pays special attention to the way the machinery moves. Anakin had come dangerously close to killing Cody, and if the clone died now, then he had killed an innocent man. 

(He doesn't think about the clones at the Temple).

Anakin crosses his arms over his chest. He’d choked Cody until he was seconds from death, all for something he hadn’t meant to do. Cody had been close with Obi-Wan, and Anakin can hardly imagine what it must’ve felt like to turn the gun on him. He tried to imagine himself fighting Padmé, his own lightsaber killing the woman he loved, and the horror that coursed through his entire body at the mere suggestion he would hurt her was overwhelming.

Cody’s body slides off of the bed and into the scanner. It whirs, and the clone’s face wrinkles slightly as the apparatus moves around him. The scanner beeps once, and then Cody is pushed out of the machine. 

_3\. YOUR DROID WILL FIND A TUMOUR IN YOUR BRAIN. THIS IS THE INHIBITOR CHIP._

“Lord Vader, I have located a tumour in CC-2224’s brain. In order to assess it, I will need to conduct a biopsy of the tumour,” the droid’s voice is low, feminine, and its inflection is completely off. Anakin had built a better droid when he was nine. He nods, and the medical droid turns back to Cody.

Its full armada of instruments is turned on the commander. The droid activates a shaver, and lowers the blade to Cody’s skull. His black hair falls to the ground in tufts, and the droid comes dangerously close to nicking the clone several times.

What was he supposed to say to Cody when he woke up? ‘Hey, sorry for choking you, I thought you killed my brother slash father-figure and then conspired with the man who killed my sister slash daughter. My bad!’

Anakin sighs. Two tiny, precise lasers flare from the medical droid’s arms, and begin to spin rapidly as he lines them up over Cody’s skull. The drill enters Cody’s skin, and Anakin curls his lip.

This is the perfect time to rehearse what he’s going to say to Cody.

He could just tell him the truth, plain and simple. Tell him who he was, why he had choked him, and what he thought Cody had done. He’d understand that.

But there was a risk there. If Cody’s betrayal wasn’t the work of the inhibitor chip—which it had to be, because if the clones killed their generals willingly, Anakin would not hold back from killing Cody—then Cody might recognize him and shoot him. Anakin Skywalker was still a Jedi. 

He’ll start slow. He’ll ask Cody what he remembers from Utapau. If he shows regret over Obi-Wan, or expresses that he wasn’t in control of himself, Anakin will explain. He’ll tell him everything. 

Then what of Rex? Anakin longs to have the captain back at his side again, but he might try to kill him if he still has the chip. His gaze drifts back to Cody. If Rex had removed his chip, he would have told Cody. They were brothers. Rex’s loyalty had always been his best and worst trait, and Anakin prays that that same trait led him to tell Cody.

The medical droid stitches Cody’s head back up, and sprays some bacta on the open wound. It applies a sterile white patch, similar to the bandages wrapping Cody’s throat, and then withdraws.

“You’re dismissed,” Anakin stares at Cody while the droid withdraws into the wall. Fives had been violent after he removed his chip, but Anakin is willing to bet that was just because of the stress he was undergoing.

He should’ve listened to Fives. Fuck, he should’ve known about the chips sooner. Fives had outright told him about Sidious’ involvement. Anakin should’ve known the second the Chancellor revealed himself. If not then, he should’ve known when he first read the datapad from the loyalists.

Sidious had played his cards well. He was a powerful man, and he had an entire army at his disposal. The chips would pose a significant threat—Sidious had a few million clones who would listen to his every word without being able to resist.

But now he has Cody and Rex. Padmé will be avenged. 

Cody’s eyes flicker open, a stream of unfinished words falling from his mouth. He sits up, and rubs his head a bit. Anakin doesn’t breathe.

Cody’s eyes wander to him, and then they snap open. Fear floods the room, and Anakin holds up a hand to try and calm him, but Cody just flinches backwards.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Commander!” Anakin says, much more forcefully than he intended. Cody swallows, his eyes roaming over Anakin. 

“Lord Vader,” Cody says, his voice scratchy. He shouldn’t have choked Cody. It was so obvious the entire time, and Anakin hadn’t figured it out—

“Commander Cody.”

The clone stares at him, and Anakin tries to make himself smaller. The helmet adds a few inches to his height, and he was already tall to begin with. “What do you remember from Utapau?”

Cody frowns, and leans back a bit, before he flinches backwards and falls back on the bed. His fingers curl in the blanket, eyes filling with tears. The clone bites his lip. He’s trying not to cry, desperately trying to hold it together. His grief is obvious. It swirls around him in the Force, radiates off of him in never-ending waves.

“It wasn’t your fault, Cody.”

Cody closes his eyes, and sniffles. Anakin wishes Rex was here. He’d never been very good with people, except for the ones he knew. 

“Cody, I took out your chip.”

At that, Cody’s head snaps towards him. His face is slick with tears, mouth open slightly, and the clone stutters out, “W-why?”

Anakin takes a step closer. “It was wrong.”

Cody props himself up on a pillow and stares at Anakin. He watches him the same way Anakin watches Sidious. 

Anakin swallows, and clenches his fists a bit. “I’d also like to say I’m sorry. For uh, for choking you.” 

The words hang in the air for a moment, and Cody blinks a few times. Anakin looks down at the ground.

“I thought you betrayed Obi-Wan on purpose, and I-I was very close to him, so I was angry at you, and when you mentioned him, I just—” Anakin stops, takes a moment, and collects his thoughts.

“I just kinda snapped, I guess. I’m sorry, commander.”

He looks back up at Cody, who is wiping his eyes with the thin med-bay blanket. Anakin looks around the white room. There has to be tissues somewhere. 

There. He calls them to his hand, and then offers them to Cody. The commander looks at him for a moment, incredulity apparent in his eyes, before he snatches the tissues from Anakin’s hands.

“Thank you for apologizing, sir,” Cody mumbles. He’s only saying that because he thinks he has to, because Anakin is his commanding officer.

Anakin doesn’t stop to think it through. He raises his palms to his helmet, and pulls it off. The seal breaks, and Anakin can smell the alcohol wipes the medical droid used, and the lingering smell of burnt skin.

Cody looks up at him, and his eyebrows furrow. “G-General Skywalker?”

Anakin coughs, and glances around the room. He double-checks the lock on the door, just to be sure no one can see him. There are no cameras in the med-bay. Sidious shouldn’t know he took off his helmet. By now, he’s figured out that if he takes off his helmet in his ship, Sidious has no way of knowing unless someone tells him, or he sees it on video. So he doesn’t regret this decision. Anakin smiles at the clone —at his _friend_.

“Hey, Cody.”

* * *

Rex is no closer to escaping when Lord Vader strolls back into the cell. He’s laying on the small bench in his cell, his head resting on his palms, and he doesn’t even look at the Sith when he comes in.

“You removed your chip, right?” Vader’s voice is deep, and it shakes Rex’s bones, but there’s a note of. . . something in there. Rex would call it hope, but he knows better. 

“Rex. You removed your chip, right?”

Rex pauses. He hadn’t told him that. Had they scanned him when they first brought him in? He sits up. Had they gotten to Cody, somehow?

He swings his legs to the side of the bench and pushes himself up. Vader is silent on the other side of the ray-shield. 

“What did you do to Cody?” he hisses. If they had hurt his _vod_ , his brother, Rex would—

“He’s fine, Captain.”

“It’s Commander, now.” 

Had he ever been officially demoted? Jesse had tried, but Rex doesn’t think that one stuck. Either way, snapping at Vader like that made Rex feel better.

“Rex. Do you still have your chip?”

Rex holds his gaze. This has to be a trap of some kind. Had they found something? Had they found Ahsoka?

It’s a trap, but Rex can’t see a way out of it. If he says no, Vader will know. Jedi had been able to sense lies. Sith could probably do the same.

“No. I removed it.” Rex says, glaring at Vader. He’s not going to be intimidated, much less by a man who works for the Empire. Vader stares at him for a moment longer, and then curls his hand into a fist. Something in the corner breaks—most likely a recording device—and Rex steps back. Is he going to kill him? He’d been angry enough before, when they were talking about Ahsoka (a conversation Rex is still confused about) but Rex had gotten out of that one easily enough. A man angry enough to place that kind of bounty is not a man to blanch at murder.

Vader’s helmet clatters to the floor, and Rex is staring at a too-familiar face. 

He has the same messy hair, same blue eyes, and the same red scar.

“General Skywalker?”

Vader— _Anakin_ —smiles, and Rex steps backwards. That’s not possible. Anakin wouldn’t turn, he wouldn’t become a Sith. The war had changed him—it had changed all of them—but not to this point. Not like this.

“Commander.”

“You joined him?” Rex whispers. General Skywalker had always respected the clones. He couldn’t have been complicit in their subjugation.

“No. I didn’t,” Anakin’s voice is softer now, raspier. Rex closes his eyes. That’s good. If the man he had served under for the past three years had been so willing to use the clones as pawns, Rex didn’t know what he would’ve done. It’d certainly cast a shadow on all the interactions they’d had in the past.

Rex opens his eyes, and looks at Anakin. His cheekbones are sharper and his skin is as pale as any moon. Even through the red ray-shield, he can tell that his eyes are underlined with dark purple bags. 

“You look like shit.”

Anakin snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s good to see you, Rex.”

Anakin shifts the slightest bit, and one of the lights from overhead catches the tip of one of the lightsabers hanging at the general’s belt. 

Ahsoka’s.

“Ahsoka is alive.”

Anakin’s smile disappears instantly, and his lips part. He’s silent for a few seconds, and Rex watches as he tries to piece together everything. Eventually, he looks up at Rex.

“That’s not possible. I felt her die.”

“She said the same thing about you, General.”

Anakin stares at him, his eyes scanning over every feature of Rex’s face. He must know that Rex is telling the truth—Jedi could always tell. Anakin sways on his feet, and closes his eyes. His lower lip trembles, and in a voice so broken Rex isn't even sure it came from him, Anakin croaks out,  “I found her lightsabers.”

“We left them there on purpose. To make sure that if anyone came after her, they’d think she was dead.”

Anakin laughs half-heartedly. “It worked.”

“Was that you? Over Alderaan?” he asks. Anakin stares blankly, before he closes his eyes and rubs his temples with a hand. 

“Ahsoka was in the Delta-7?”

“Uh huh.”

Anakin sighs, and then looks at Rex. Tears hover in the corners of his eyes, but the smile on his face tells Rex that he’s happy. This is a good thing.

Rex thinks he might be crying too, but he doesn’t stop and check. The general taps something, and the ray-shield fizzes out. Rex salutes stiffly, and Anakin grins. He pulls the captain in, and Rex wraps his arms around the general. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dont have anything funny to put here. writing this chapter ruined me. im going to need three weeks to emotionally recover from this. 
> 
> (thats a joke the next update is coming soon)
> 
> POSTED 11/06/2020


	8. Of Imperials and Bounty Hunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahsoka explores an anomaly in the Force and makes a deal with a bounty hunter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw/tw: decapitation of a dead body (non-explicit)
> 
> if you want to skip that moment only, skip the paragraph starting with 'Izoli stands over. . ' and start reading again at the paragraph beginning 'Ahsoka activates the door. . .'

Tatooine isn’t much different from the last time Ahsoka saw it, but this time there’s a lot less murderous Separatists. That’s probably for the best. This time, there’s also a lot less Anakin, which is probably for the worst. 

The absence of her family—blood or not—presses on Ahsoka, and she tugs her hood up a bit further, as if hiding will make it better. Around her, the guttural tones of Huttese fill the air. It’s a welcome source of white noise, and it drowns out her thoughts a bit.

In her dark clothing, Ahsoka stands out. Most of the Tatooine natives wear loose sand-coloured garments. While Ahsoka has a small cloak of her own, it barely offers any protection from the twin suns overhead. It's meant for anonymity, not protection. On Tatooine, that seems to mean the same thing.

Had Tatooine been this hot when she went with Anakin? Ahsoka adjusts her back on her back and looks around the marketplace. She’d brought plenty of ration bars—though her stomach had protested—and more than her fair share of water. Ahsoka just needs some pointers.

Ahsoka shoves past a particularly sweaty Gamorrean, and glances around the rest of the marketplace. The stalls lining the side of the road are covered in bright colours, along with the shop’s wares. The vendors call out in throaty Huttese. Anchorhead is small, and any new arrivals would be well-scrutinized. If she needs information, this is where she’ll find it.

The flares in the Force had been less and less common as she got closer to Tatooine, but they’d gotten significantly stronger. Something on Tatooine was. . . wrong, for lack of a better word. Astonishingly powerful, and worryingly unshielded. Though it could be a nexus in the Force, Ahsoka’s gut told her the flares were coming from a person.

With the way they’d been shaking the Force, it had to be someone well-attuned with the Force. Most likely a child, and born recently. If they’d been born during the age of the Republic, the Jedi would’ve found them within days. They’d have been taken in, trained in the ways of the Jedi, and then subject to Order 66.

Ahsoka physically flinches when she thinks of whatever fate awaited the children still in the Temple during Order 66. It couldn’t have been painless—nothing with the Empire ever was. 

But thinking about it won’t do her any good. Ahsoka straightens, and grasps the straps of her bag. Her helmet is in her bag with the rest of her supplies, and her Togruta features are on full displays. While not as desired as Twi’leki women, Togrutas were exotic enough to warrant a high price on the slave market. Ahsoka isn’t stupid; she knows she’s a target.

She doesn’t let it deter her. Ahsoka saunters up to large red stall, summoning all of her confidence, and stops in front of a diminutive Dug. 

“Excuse me,” Ahsoka smiles, well aware of the way the Dug’s eyes flick to her pointed canines, “I’m looking for some friends of mine. They would’ve moved in about four months ago.”

The Dug’s eyes roll over her, and then it sinks down in its seat. Ahsoka squints to make out its features. 

“Six wupiupi.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you want information, _girl_ , it’ll cost you.”

Ahsoka stares down the Dug, and it stares her down right back. She crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t have any wupiupi. Do you take Imperial credits?”

With a shrug of its shoulders, the Dug responds, “Those aren’t any good out here. Move along. You’re holding up business.”

Ahsoka’s fingers twitch. It’d be so easy to just mind-trick the Dug into giving her the information. After all, it clearly knew something. 

But Ahsoka’s never been partial to mind-tricks. She’d seen them used on Cad Bane before, with Master Windu, Master Kenobi, and Anakin pouring their collective power into the trick. Cad Bane had writhed in pain, and ever since, using mind-tricks left Ahsoka feeling dirty. She’d use them when she had to, but it doesn’t seem like she’s at that point yet.

Ahsoka looks down at the wares on the Dug’s stall, and picks one up. It’s a metal pot, but really it’s just a sheet of metal banged into a rough approximation of a pot. Ahsoka looks it over,and then shifts her gaze back to the Dug.

If it won’t take Imperial credits, then it’ll barter. Six wupiupi can’t possibly be that much, but Ahsoka doesn’t really want to take any jobs on Tatooine. Unconsciously, her gaze shifts to the chained slaves kneeling beside some of the stalls later down the streets.

“How much does this cost?”

“Twelve wupiupi.”

The Dug is overselling it. No pot like this could ever be worth twelve wupiupi—however much those are worth—but Ahsoka is a foreigner. Anything she tries to buy will be overpriced.

“I don’t have any wupiupi. Would you consider bartering?” Ahsoka tilts her head, projecting innocence through the Force. The Dug stares, and leans forward a bit. Its face moves out of the shadows, and its sapphire-coloured skin catches the light.

“What do you have, girl?”

Ahsoka keeps her face calm. She doesn’t have much. She only packed the essentials, and if the Dug won’t take Imperial credits, she’ll have to trade something a bit more important.

She tucks the pot underneath her arm, and uses the other one to reach around to her back. Without this information, she won’t be able to get anywhere. The flares are too powerful for her to focus on the exact location, so she needs this. This is worth it.

The Dug’s eyes widen as she displays her shiny electrobaton. It’s the older of the two—the one she had on Sy Myrth—but it’s still new enough for Tatooine. The Dug’s snout curls into a smile, and it reaches for the baton greedily. Ahsoka yanks it back, and the Dug snarls.

“First, the newcomers.”

It curls its upper lip, and the Dug huffs. “Out by the Jundland wastes. With two brats.”

“Children?” And two of them?

“Yeah. Human, both of them. Young.”

Ahsoka lets the Dug grab the electrobaton, and clutches the pot to her chest. “Thank you.”

She turns around, and flips around to start walking to her speeder. Bail had gotten her a ship, one to use while Rex took the _Prophet_. Her replacement ship is a weathered freighter, and it used to be a Zygerrian slave ship.

Not the best—not even worthy of a true name—but it fits in with the other ships on Tatooine. During the war, Ahsoka had taken the luxury of always having a top model ship for granted. While her and Anakin often piloted ships that had extensive damage—the _Twilight_ comes to mind almost instantly—they were also Jedi. Delta-7s had been constructed for their personal use, and the ETA-2s later down the line. 

Looking around at the sand-weathered faces of the slaves around her, Ahsoka wonders how the Republic had been able to justify the expenses of the war. There was still slavery in the galaxy, and the Republic had decided to spend its money on a war.

It’d been corrupt even before Palpatine took office. Ahsoka draws her cloak around her and tightens her bag. She’s not here to ruminate on the war. She’s here to investigate whatever is going on with the Force.

With the information the Dug gave her, Ahsoka can piece everything together. The flares were from two small children, which explained the power. Anakin had been devastatingly powerful, and even shielded it amazed her. There had been times when she’d reached through the bond, he hadn’t been shielding as much as he should’ve been, and Ahsoka would have to pull back before she burned herself. 

The power in the Force had been bigger than that, and knowing it came from two separate people does alleviate some of her fears. Still, even halved, the children have immense power. They need to be properly trained. 

Maybe not as Jedi, but at the very least they need shielding or the Empire will be on their doorstep by the end of the week. Ahsoka can’t see more Force-senstitive children lost, especially not to the Empire. 

That’s as far as her planning goes for right now. It’s all she really needs. Ahsoka adjusts her pack, hugs the pot closer to her chest, and stumbles closer to her ship. There’s a speeder that she shoved into its cargo hold, and as long as it’s still there, Ahsoka will be fine.

Her speeder is not there.

In fact, the entire ship seems to have been looted. Its hold hangs open, and when Ahsoka looks around the entire thing, she can see the extent of the damage. There’s numerous places where the panels have been ripped off, and the wiring inside scavenged. She opens the hold, and half of her supplies are gone. 

Fuck. Ahsoka wasn’t planning on doing any jobs on Tatooine, mostly because the Tatooini version of a ‘job’ seemed to be akin to slavery, but it doesn’t really seem like she has a choice.

* * *

Behind the counter sits a young Arkanian woman, reading something off of her datapad with her eyes half-closed. Nonetheless, when Ahsoka steps in, the woman’s eyes snap up and she throws her datapad to the side.

A large smile spreads across her face, but her indifference is obvious in the Force. A pair of dark goggles rest atop the woman’s crown of white hair, and her calm appearance almost lulls Ahsoka into a sense of security, until she notices the large rifle strapped to the woman’s back.

The woman speaks in Huttese, and Ahsoka merely blinks. “Do you speak Basic?”

“Oh, yes! How can I help you today?” she grins, her shiny white teeth blending in with the rest of her perfect pale skin. Arkanians had always reached for genetic perfection, and this woman seems to be the result of years of tampering. Shiny, smooth, and disconcerting.

“I’m looking for jobs,” Ahsoka rests her hands on the counter. The room around her is kept dark, but the posters covering the walls are still visible enough. Tatooine is full of criminals, and where there are criminals, there are bounties. A town as small as Anchorhead might not have as many bounties as Mos Espa, or Mos Eisley, but it’s still bound to have plenty.

Ahsoka’s skills as a Jedi should make her a pretty good bounty hunter. She’d played that role often enough during the war, when she hunted down Separatists with Anakin. 

The Arkanian tilts her head. “What kind of jobs?”

“Whatever you have.”

“Do you have a price range you’re looking to be in, or. . .” the Arkanian raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. Ahsoka glances around the room. All of the flimsi posters are in Huttese, and Ahsoka couldn’t read it if she tried.

“I need enough to pay for a speeder,” Ahsoka says, fiddling with her fingers. Being a bounty hunter couldn’t be hard. Cad Bane had been among the best, and Ahsoka had beaten him before. Surely, Jedi outranked bounty hunter.

“A new speeder runs at about eighteen peggats, but you might be able to find a better price with the Imps.”

“There are Imperials on Tatooine?” Ahsoka says, automatically reaching into the Force and casting her awareness around like a net. She stands a bit straighter, and shoves her shoulders back. Any planet with an Imperial presence is bad news, and having Imperials on Tatooine, where Ahsoka is investigating can’t be good. 

“Yeah. Down by Mos Espa,” the Arkanian props up her head with a hand, before she looks Ahsoka up and down. The woman is an amalgamation of different traits, with smooth, featureless skin, pointed ears, and pupil-less eyes. “Though, I supposed you won’t be able to get there without a speeder.”

Ahsoka nods. “Then I need a bounty with that reward. Eighteen peggats.”

She thinks of her looted ship, and the parts she’ll most likely need to replace. “Actually, probably a bit more than that. My ship was looted.”

The Arkanian nods, and picks up a datapad. While she scrolls, Ahsoka studies her. Arkanians had considered themselves to be at the pinnacle of evolution, and had always leaned into genetic modification to makes themselves better. She’d learned about it briefly at the Temple. The Arkanians created a few sub-species to do their labour, most of which could be distinguished by their white skin. 

The woman in front of her seems to have every Arkanian trait imaginable. Pointed ears, which were common among Sephi hybrids, the white skin of the human hybrids, but the pure white eyes of true Arkanian purebloods. 

“I have a few bounties you might find suitable,” the Arkanian slides the datapad over to Ahsoka, “If you’re not able to travel beyond Anchorhead, you might be a bit restricted.”

“I see,” Ahsoka picks up the datapad, and frowns. A lot of the bounties only seemed to run at about one or two peggats each. Minor criminals, and a few escaped slaves.

Ahsoka immediately resolves not to go after those bounties. After their mission to Zygerria, she’d asked Anakin about his past. Begrudgingly, he’d told her. 

Anakin was born a slave on Tatooine, and was owned by a Hutt named Gardulla for the first few years of his life before being lost in a bet to a Toydarian. He’d worked in the Toydarian’s shop with his mother until the Jedi master Qui-Gon Jinn, and Queen Amidala came to Tatooine looking for parts. 

He’d skipped over most of the middle, but told her that his master lost him to Jinn in another bet, and Jinn had freed him before bringing him to the Jedi to be trained.  Anakin hadn’t said a lot, but just talking about those years was difficult for him. He’d become tense, and even shielded she could feel his raw anger through the Force.

If any slaves had managed to escape, Ahsoka wouldn't go after them. They deserved freedom. Ahsoka isn't going to change that. She looks back up at the Arkanian, who watches her carefully.

“Are there any other bounties in the area? Ones that could cover the cost of a speeder?”

The Arkanian leans back, and chews on her cheek. Eventually, she sighs and grabs the datapad from Ahsoka’s hands. “Depends what you’re willing to do.”

Before Ahsoka can respond, the Arkanian sets the datapad down and leans forward, steepling her fingers. “How long have you been a bounty hunter, girl?”

Ahsoka stands straighter, thankful for the extra height her montrals give her, and meets the Arkanian’s steady gaze, “I’ve been fighting since I was fourteen.”

“But how long have you been a bounty hunter?”

“Long enough,” Ahsoka says. The Arkanian stares a her for a few more seconds before she sighs and passes the datapad back.

“There’s a bounty out on a Imperial officer out by Mos Espa. I’ve taken it, but I need another person in order for this to work. If you’re as experienced as you say you are, it should be easy. If not. . .”

“I’ll take it,” Ahsoka sets the datapad down. Killing Imperials was better than killing slaves, especially when Imperials had a price like that on their head. One hundred peggats, even split between the two of them, would be more than enough to cover the cost of her speeder. 

The Arkanian smiles, and reaches across the table to shake Ahsoka’s hand. Ahsoka grasps her too-cold palm in her own, and shakes the Arkanian’s pale hand.

* * *

Turns out, the Arkanian—who Ahsoka still doesn’t know the name of—has her own speeder, and has modified it to the point of insanity. The thing looks like it should barely run, but somehow it does. Ahsoka doesn’t question it. Skyguy had done worse.

They rocket over Tatooine’s dunes, the Arkanian hollering the entire time. Ahsoka put on her mask a few minutes into the ride, and still the sand found a way into her suit. She’s starting to understand Anakin’s annoyance with it.

“Are we almost there?” Ahsoka says, her voice lost in the roar of the speeder engine. The Arkanian, her goggles pulled down to cover her eyes, turns towards Ahsoka.

“What?”

“Are we almost there?” Ahsoka yells a bit louder this time. The Arkanian nods.

“Yeah. Couple more klicks, and we’ll be there.”

If they made it there in one piece. Ahsoka had modified several of her own speeders and ships, but that was under Anakin’s tutelage. He’d made some modifications that were dangerous, but if it was Anakin making them, they were most likely safe. The same couldn’t be said for the bounty hunter in front of her.

“Do we have a plan?” Ahsoka shifts from her position near the back of the speeder. On the horizon, Mos Espa rises up. Its buildings are small, low to the ground, and they blend in with the sandy backdrop.

“Yeah,” the Arkanian yells, “I’ll explain it later, oka—hey, do you have a name? Just realized I never asked!” 

Ahsoka holds her breath as the speeder shudders. “Uh, yeah. Ashla.”

“I’ll explain the plan later, okay Ashla?” 

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” Ahsoka sinks down. The only thing to be seen on Tatooine is a flat desert. Occasionally, they pass a small homestead or moisture farm. Other than those brief pockets of civilization, Tatooine is horrifically empty.

It’s sad, in a way. The planet barely changed since Ahsoka had last been there. Other than a few fleeting mentions of the Empire, it was as if the Republic still stood. The planet was stuck in stasis. 

Slowly, the homesteads become more and more common. Mos Espa draws closer, and with it, the Force rolls. Mos Espa is controlled by the Hutts, and as such, so many slaves call the city home. Their pain is evident in the Force, and Ahsoka raises her shields a bit higher to shut it out.

As much as she wants to, she’s not here to free them. Not today.

The Arkanian stops the speeder, skidding over the sand dunes, and Ahsoka immediately steps off. Her companion is significantly slower, taking the time to grab her weapons and other items.

As she tugs everything off of the speeder, Ahsoka takes the time to consider her situation. The Arkanian had mentioned she might be able to buy a speeder from the Imps, but that’s not even close to an option. After her stunt on Sy Myrth, interacting with the Imperials was more dangerous than ever. They recognized her as a criminal with the mask, and without it she ran the risk of being recognized as as a Jedi.

Though, those words were practically synonymous by now. 

The Arkanian comes up beside her, and hands Ahsoka a pair of macrobinoculars. Ahsoka stares at her, and then takes off her mask. She hands it to the other woman, and then raises the macrobinoculars to her face.

At first, it only amplifies the city ahead of them, before the Arkanian tilts Ahsoka’s head up. Hovering over the city, beyond Tatooine’s atmosphere, lies a massive Star Destroyer. Lined with crevices, with a small armada of ARC-170s and ETA-2s around it, the thing looks ready to soar into battle.

It carries the same red paint Ahsoka had grown used to seeing on the behemoths, and for a brief moment, her instinctual reaction to seeing the ship is to relax, because it’s a Republic ship. A Republic ship means safety.

Then, she remembers the Empire controls those ships now. 

“You wanted a plan, right?” the Arkanian says, her amusement ringing through the Force.

“Are we going in there?” Ahsoka asks. Her voice is high and tense, and the Arkanian woman laughs loudly. 

“Yup. Still sure you want this job?”

Ahsoka stares at the Destroyer. She’d spent the past few years of her life on those ships, training with Anakin, or Master Kenobi, and she knows exactly how well-armoured they are. Separatists had tried, and failed, to sneak aboard the ship. It wasn’t like it was easy.

“Here’s the plan,” the Arkanian says, “Our Imp is on that Star Destroyer. They’re low-level, just barely an officer. I’ve acquired an Imp uniform and some Imperial identification, so I’ll be able to get through the ship without anyone questioning me being there.”

“That being said, I wasn’t able to get my hands on a keycard, and if I try to scan my identification it’ll be automatically identified as fake.”

“Then what’s the point of having it?”

“Machines aren’t as stupid as clones. It gets me across most checkpoints, but droids always detect that it’s forged. Either way, it’ll work.”

Ahsoka rolls her eyes and focuses on the Star Destroyer while the Arkanian continues. 

“Above every door in the Star Destroyer, there’s a vent. Just big enough for a human—or a young Togruta—to fit through. You can slice into the door from there, and let me through. No keycard needed. You follow me through the vents, and we get our Imp.”

“Your master plan is for me to crawl through vents?”

“Yup.”

“And what if the clones hear me?”

“Guess you’ll just have to be quiet.”

Ahsoka drops the macrobinoculars and stares at the Arkanian, who shows no trace of backing down. Her arms are crossed across her chest, and the smirk on her face is unabashedly proud. Ahsoka sighs, and reminds herself of the peggats that will wait for her when she gets back to Mos Espa. She can crawl through the vent, investigate the flare in the Force, and be off this planet before the Imps can even track anything to her. 

She hands the macrobinoculars back to the Arkanian, and pretends she’s on board with this plan. Ahsoka had done stupider things with Anakin.

But back then, she’d had her lightsabers, the moral high ground, and her master to back her up. Now, she had none of those things.

But Ahsoka doesn’t have any other choice. “Can I at least have the courtesy of knowing your name before we break into an Imperial ship together?”

The Arkanian smiles, flashing too-sharp teeth, “Izoli.”

* * *

Izoli, apparently, has her own ship. A Kappa-class shuttle. She says she’s borrowing it from a friend, which, to Ahsoka, means she stole it. Shuttles like this one were only manufactured for military use. Civvies don’t have access to them.

Or, she thinks as she watches Izoli maneuver the shuttle closer to the Destroyer, they’re not supposed to have them. Izoli wears a freshly pressed captain’s uniform, complete with the red and blue badge.

Comms buzzes, and a very tired clone trooper speaks, “This is Imperial Star Destroyer _Sunrise._ Identification?”

“This is Captain Istrand, identification code I49I07, with Imperial shuttle S7Z9.”

Ahsoka braces herself. While Izoli’s codes might be reliable enough, there’s a high chance that they’ll be caught. The clones running the identification checks were always fastidious, and unless Izoli had somehow gotten her codes into the system, the clones will catch them.

“Cleared for landing. Dock in bay one.”

Izoli’s pleasure ripples around her, and Ahsoka raises an eyebrow. “How’d you get those codes into the system?”

“I have a friend.”

Ahsoka rolls her eyes as Izoli calmly maneuvers the shuttle into bay one. It’s near the wall, and there’s a small vent opening to the shuttle’s port side. “How many friends do you have?”

Izoli doesn’t respond, merely lands the shuttle and flattens out her uniform. The Arkanian is tall, and in the sharp lines of the uniform, she cuts an imposing figure. 

Her white eyes meet Ahsoka’s. “Ready?”

Ahsoka nods. 

She’s gone over the plan in her head more times than she can count. First, Izoli will dock the shuttle in the main hangar. They’ll dock close to the wall, so that Ahsoka can sneak out of the shuttle and into the first vent. From there, she’ll be in the ventilation system. Izoli will wear a tracker so Ahsoka can maneuver herself to her position, after which they’ll start heading to the target. 

Every time they reach a door, Ahsoka will bypass its security systems using a small cylindrical device Izoli got from another friend.

It’s simple enough on paper, but Ahsoka can already feel the Force as it boils around her. The Destroyer is packed with clones, and by the bridge, Ahsoka can feel something even worse.

A Force presence steeped in anger and pain, but not the same person from Thabeska. Whoever this is, they don’t bother with shielding. They oscillate in the Force, with their presence gone one moment and blazing the next.

Ahsoka shudders and reinforces her shields, then nods at Izoli.

The other woman grins, and the shuttle door begins to open. Ahsoka hangs just out of side, her mask on. Izoli raises herself to her full height, and clasps her arms behind her back. She falls into the role of officer disturbingly easily, but Ahsoka doesn’t focus on that.

The hangar is rife with clones, but most of them are rushing to and from their own ships. If she can time it right, Ahsoka will be able to pop the grating off of the vent and be in the system before any of the clones can stop her.

Compared to the rest of the ship, the hangar is low in the ground. There’s a raised section by the back, a hallway that leads into the rest of the ship, and it runs parallel to the blue magnetic shields of the hangar. 

It’s familiar, and that’s what Ahsoka hates the most. But she grew up in these ships. She can infiltrate one easily.

Ahsoka waits until all the clones in the hangar are distracted with something else, and then she shoots down the ramp and towards the back of the hangar. 

There. The first ventilation grate isn’t large, but it’s just big enough for her to fit into. She bends down, and wills the Force to hide her from anyone doing a quick sweep of the area. They’ll notice her if they look too closely, but right now her presence won’t spark any alarm. She’ll seem like she belongs here.

Ahsoka pulls out the lone screwdriver on her belt and quickly undos each of the four screws on the vent. A clone veers scarily close, and Ahsoka dissuades him with a quick poke from the Force.

She slips into the vent, and uses the Force to seal it behind her. She doesn’t have the time or concentration to screw everything back in, so she settles for just pulling the metal on the grate until it’s wedged in the vent.

Ahsoka takes a deep breath, though it’s difficult in the tight space. She wiggles backwards in the vent. If she’s right—which she knows she is—she’ll drop into a small maintenance hall soon enough. There were pockets of them all over the ship, where Ahsoka could stop and breath. Though meant for technicians to have suitable working areas while they maintained the ship’s inner workings, they’d do for infiltration.

The ground falls out from under her, and Ahsoka lands in the maintenance hall with a loud grunt.

It’s only by sheer luck that she doesn’t fall on top of a technician. That’d be a fun conversation to have. 

Ahsoka shakes it off, and turns around. The maintenance hall is small, but she expected that.It’s only a thin corridor, with barely enough room to maneuver around. There’s another vent a bit higher up, and Ahsoka wrenches it out of place with the Force. It’s easier to use it here, where no clones can see her. Ahsoka knows these halls intimately, and she knows that there are no security cameras in the maintenance halls. They’d always waved the halls off as impenetrable, and Ahsoka is starting to see how so many Separatists had gotten onto Republic ships.

The vent clatters to the ground.Ahsoka glances around the maintenance hall, ensures no technicians are coming for her, and then dives headfirst into the vent. 

The inside is covered in dust, and Ahsoka coughs. It’s small, made of thin metal, and the interior is lined with wires. Her elbows are splayed out to her sides, and she wiggles forward until she’s sealed in the vent. Ahsoka closes her eyes, concentrates, and the vent cover attaches itself back onto the vent.

She’s sealed in here now. Ahsoka’s shoulders are pressed together in the tight vent, and breathing is difficult, but she can still move. In one curled fist, she clasps the cylindrical device Izoli gave her. Izoli wears a tracker, and Ahsoka is supposed to crawl up to her location with the help of a mini-datapad, but she doesn’t need to use it.

This infiltration would be a lot more difficult if Ahsoka wasn’t Force-senstive. She sinks into that energy field, lets it guide her, and searches for Izoli. The Arkanian isn’t Force-senstive, but she still carries her own signature.

Ahsoka presses her lips together and tries harder to find her companion. The Force is dominated by the presence on the bridge. They’re a supernova in the Force, their anger and their pain weaving a maelstrom around them. 

She tries to block them out, and searches for Izoli. Ahsoka shifts forwards, army crawling along the length of the vent, still searching for her accomplice. 

There. Izoli’s confident presence sings through the Force, and Ahsoka pins it before she can lose it. The other woman is confident, and though her heart beats a bit too fast to be normal, she still oozes slick self-assurance. 

Ahsoka shuffles forwards, keeping herself in that half-meditative state. Her elbows rub against the sides of the vent as she moves, and Ahsoka is painfully aware of every single movement she makes.

In the Force, Ahsoka sends out waves of calm. Any passing trooper should ignore the noise she’s making. Izoli wavers for a brief moment, and Ahsoka quickly checks the Force around her.

It’s nothing, only a small moment of worry, and Ahsoka starts crawling a bit faster. Izoli is only a few dozen metres away, and as long as Ahsoka is quiet, she can reach her quickly.

As Ahsoka draws closer, she has to travel over vent grates. Through the slitted surface, she can faintly make out the white armour of clone troopers, and the occasional clone officer. Izoli is the only non-clone in the entire hall, and her white hair makes her stick out even more than she would normally.

Ahsoka slides over the vent floor, still sending waves of calm through the Force. The clones don’t seem to notice her as she moves, but that does little to calm her anxieties.

It takes one wrong step, one sneeze, one mistake, and she’ll be caught, and most likely put to death. 

She can only hope Rex is doing better.

He’d been off ever since they rescued Wolffe. She’d asked him if he needed to talk about anything, and he always just said that he was thinking. Thinking about what, he didn’t specify. Ahsoka didn’t press. She’d done plenty of her own thinking before she set off for Tatooine.

Ahsoka finally stops just above Izoli, and takes that moment to breath. Climbing through vents was common enough back with the Jedi, because between her, Master Kenobi, and Anakin, she was the only one small enough to fit into most vents, but squirming through vents never got easier. It always left her knees and elbows burning from the friction, and this was no exception. 

Ahsoka opens her curled fist and turns around the device, searching for the small blue button that functioned as a comm. She doesn’t speak into it, merely presses the button. Izoli’s own comlink buzzes, and she checks it before she slowly sets off down the hallway.

In order to catch up with her Ahsoka has to squirm through the vents even faster, and it’s only by a small miracle, and a bit of the Force, that no one hears her. 

Izoli is lucky Ahsoka is Force-sensitive and trained. No one, certainly not anyone on Tatooine, would have the skills needed to crawl through a ventilation duct without being heard. No one except Ahsoka.

Izoli stops, and Ahsoka looks forward. The vent is covered in wires, and Izoli said that Ahsoka should be able to bypass the door using a connection somewhere in the vents, and Ahsoka searches for some kind of signal, something she can plug her device into. 

She latches onto a bright red wire. The wire splits off, one end dangling on the vent floor limply, and the other end travelling through the rest of the vent. Ahsoka grabs the limp wire, and slams the end of her device into the wire. The wire, which ends in a flat circle with two prongs, connects with the device, and the door hisses open.

Ahsoka almost sighs, but stops herself. Izoli walks through the door, her posture still perfect, and Ahsoka removes the small device and scurries forwards.

She falls into a kind of monotony soon enough. Every-time Izoli swerves, Ahsoka swerves with her. And when she stops in front of a door, Ahsoka finds that red wire and plugs it into the device. All the while, she soothes the clones through the Force. As she moves, she learns how to do so silently. If she keeps her feet from dragging on the floor, she can really reduce the noise she makes.

Ahsoka unlocks another door, and Izoli stops in front of a long corridor of rooms. The officer’s quarters. Izoli’s next steps are slow and deliberate as she stops in front of a small door. Ahsoka scoots forward, and Izoli casts a wary glance around the room. 

The wires here are confusing. With so many doors, there’s so many wires. Ahsoka finds one, and plugs it into her device, only to have the wrong door slide open. Izoli stiffens, and Ahsoka scrambles to pull out the device before anyone comes out of the door.

She fails in that regard.

A skinny human officer comes out of the room, and Ahsoka flinches. Izoli’s voice floats up through the vents. Her presence in the Force skips, but she keeps the officer placated.

Ahsoka can’t make out the exact words, but that doesn’t truly matter. She shrinks in on herself, covering her face with her hands. How could she have made such a huge mistake? How stupid could she get?

The officer’s voice grows louder. Ahsoka opens her eyes, and reaches out into the Force. The officer’s room is filled with knickknacks, and she yanks several of them off. The officer jumps, and storms back into their room. Ahsoka reaches forward, towards that door’s wire, and pulls. It rips apart, and the officer’s door slams shut. Ahsoka shapes her power into a lance, and throws it towards the officer. 

The officer passes out, and Ahsoka almost sobs in relief. They’re fine. Their cover isn’t blown. This time, Ahsoka finds the right wire. The door slides open, and Izoli steps in. The vent extends into the room, and the vent ends in a wide rectangle. It gives Ahsoka enough space to turn around so she can guide Izoli back to the shuttle.

She shuffles forwards, and the heated voices of both Izoli and the officer they were sent to kill echo through the vent. While Ahsoka can’t make out the words, she can make out the officer’s teary cries, and Izoli’s clipped tones.

She tries to ignore it as she reaches the end of the vent. Ahsoka twists, using her elbows to drag herself along. Ahsoka turns, and lets herself relax. Her tense muscles burn as she rests, her face positioned just above another grate.

Izoli stands over the officer’s limp body, clutching a humming vibroblade. Her eyes are narrowed, and Ahsoka gulps. The Arkanian woman bends down and clutches the officer’s dark hair. She places the vibroblade on the back of the officer’s neck, and begins to saw through his flesh. The vibroblade cauterizes the cut instantly, but Ahsoka can still smell blood as it drifts up through the vents. She tries to tear her eyes away as Izoli cuts, but she can’t.

This is what it is to be a bounty hunter. This is what it is to survive under the Empire.

It’s not the worse thing she’s ever seen, but that doesn’t make it any better. Izoli stands, clutching the head by its hair, and glances around the room. She grabs a box on the counter, turns it over, and places the head in it. 

Ahsoka activates the door for Izoli, and then the next. None of the clones question Izoli as she waltzes past, clutching the box. They don’t know that one of their officers’ head lays in the box, severed from its host. Why would they?

Izoli veers off into the hangar, and Ahsoka stops opening doors for her. She scurries through the vents, moving on auto-pilot. Though far from the worst thing Ahsoka’s seen—she was in a war, after all—it was still gruesome. 

Ahsoka slides down into the maintenance hall, and forces the vent cover open again. She stops it from falling to the ground, and hops down into the hall. Her muscles scream, and Ahsoka stretches. She shakes as she does, her body re-adjusting to standing straight.

She knows that this is how it had to be. Ahsoka’s killed people in battle, decapitated Death Watch members herself, but that was in self-defense. She did that because she had to, because she would die otherwise. Izoli had grabbed the head like a trophy, hoisting it around like it was something to be proud of. 

Ahsoka closes her eyes, and lets her frustrations drift away from her. They vanish into the Force, but her disgust remains.

She climbs into the final vent, and is grateful to see that the hangar is populated only by a few clones, most of them at the opposite end of the hangar. She pushes open the first vent. It falls to the ground, but the sound is drowned out by the hum of the engines around her. Ahsoka takes a deep breath, and then shoots towards the shuttle.

She rockets up the ramp, and it closes before she’s even fully in the shuttle. Izoli sits at the controls, the box taking up the seat next to her. The shuttle bursts out of the hangar, and Ahsoka pants.

She sinks into the Force, letting it cradle it. It supports her, even when her knees are weak, and Ahsoka has never been so thankful.

Something slams into her, and Ahsoka feels the blow as if it were physical. The slimy presence from the ship wraps around her, dragging her towards them. Ahsoka rams her shields up, trying to banish their dark probes from her mind with well-placed bursts of light.

They curl around her, worming through every single crack in her shields. They summon memories of the crèche, of building her first lightsaber, and then they drag her memories of Anakin to the surface.

He smirks at her, his eyes daring Ahsoka to push more. Ahsoka ignites her second blade and jumps at him, using both of her blades to push down on his. Anakin shoves her off, and Ahsoka lands on the floor of the training dojo with a loud thump.

Padmé runs a hand over her cheek, and though Ahsoka is too delirious to hear the memory, she clearly makes out Padmé’s mouth say ‘I’m proud of you,’ and Ahsoka can’t help but begin to cry.

Anakin tosses her a ration bar, and she catches it with ease. He grins back at her, his mouth moving, but his words are muffled, as if they’re underwater. Ahsoka laughs.

Battle droids come at them, and they fend them off. They’re in the dusty fields of Tatooine, with Rotta clutched to her chest. She’s running through Coruscant, tears mingling with the rain on her face. Maul is in front of her, taunting, and then she’s on the holotable, deflecting bolt after bolt after bolt from the clones. The ship is crashing, and then Ahsoka is burying her men.

She slams her shields up, and the presence disappears. Ahsoka is left alone on the ship, with only a bounty hunter, a head, and her own memories.

* * *

Izoli places the box onto the counter of her shop, and Ahsoka follows. The Arkanian hops over the side and reaches down below the counter, rummaging around. Ahsoka cradles her arms around herself, waiting to just get her money and go. Izoli hasn’t handed in the bounty yet, but she’s agreed to give Ahsoka her cut immediately.

Izoli surfaces, and tosses Ahsoka a small pouch. She snatches it out of the air and opens it. One hundred rusted metal coins stare back at her, and she smiles. This is what she’s here for. This mission had only lasted two days, but it was time Ahsoka couldn’t afford to waste. She needs to get back to Rex and the others as soon as she can. 

“You know, Tatooine could benefit from having someone like you around,” Izoli tilts her head. Ahsoka laughs. 

“Thank you, but I. . . I need to get back to my family.”

Izoli shrugs, and hops back over the counter so that she’s face to face with Ahsoka. “Just know that my offer still stands,” she leans back on the counter, and smiles softly, “I owe you own after you saved my ass with that officer.”

Ahsoka’s smile stays plastered on her face, but her heart skips. Izoli can’t know, there’s no way she could’ve possibly figured out how Ahsoka had done that—

And she hasn’t. Izoli is calm. 

Ahsoka tucks the pouch into her own bag, and shifts. Izoli had pulled a good trick back there, getting onto the Star Destroyer. 

“There is one thing you can do,” Ahsoka says, “How’d you get onto the Star Destroyer? Getting a name into the database isn’t easy. Neither is impersonating an Imp.”

Izoli’s white eyes flick downwards, and her smile fades. After a second of deliberation, she looks back to Ahsoka. “It wasn’t impersonation.”

“What?”

“I was a Republic captain during the Clone war. My ship crashed, and I wasn’t able to get a signal to the Republic for months. I took a few bounties, did a few jobs. I came back, and the Empire was there,” Izoli’s face takes on a darker expression. She sets her jaw. “The Empire uses the same database the Republic did, so my name was still in there. I got a buddy of mine to reactivate my code, change my status from MIA to active.”

Ahsoka nods. It made enough sense, but it’s not like Ahsoka will be able to pull the same trick. She frowns. “Then why did you need me for the doors?”

“I lost my keycard. If I tried to get a new one, they would’ve noticed I was supposed to be dead. My guy’s good, but the Imps are better. They would’ve noticed if they gave it more than a glance. I can get into the hangar, but I can’t get any farther than that.”

Light scatters around them, and Ahsoka stares at her feet. “I see.”

Izoli is silent a moment more, before she reaches onto her belt and hands Ahsoka a small comlink. She takes it, and turns it over in her hands. 

“If you ever need something, you can try calling me. You’re a good kid, Ashla. And a good bounty hunter. I’m always open if you need someone for a job.”

Ahsoka smiles—really, actually smiles—and tucks the comlink away. Izoli offers her another trinket. A small, flat circle, with a blazing sun carved into the metal. It’s not a familiar crest, but Ahsoka accepts it anyway.

“That emblem can win you favour with some of my friends across the galaxy,” Izoli crosses her arms over her chest. “And I have a lot of friends.”

* * *

Ahsoka’s new speeder isn’t exactly a technological marvel, but it’ll do for now. Her remaining peggats are tucked safely away in her bag, and as she drives, they rustle.

The speeder rumbles as she heads across Tatooine, towards the Jundland wastes. The Dug she’d traded with better have been right, because if her stay on Tatooine ended up being for nothing, Ahsoka would probably just lay down in the sand and die.

Well, that’s an exaggeration, but the sentiment remains. In order to reach the wastes, she has to travel across the salt flats, which seem to be an endless stretch of flat sand. It’s mind-numbing, and she starts to wish for something to happen just to break up the monotony of piloting the speeder.

The Force has been calm the past few days—with the exception of the presence on the Star Destroyer. 

Ahsoka presses the throttle a bit harder. Whoever was in that ship, they weren’t the same person from Thabeska or Alderaan. They were dirtier, less refined. They lashed out at her, yet didn’t have the capabilities to hold on. They weren’t a Sith lord, and Ahsoka bets they were barely trained.

Either way, it’s not good news. It means that the Empire has more than one Force-sensitive in their military, and Dark-side adepts to boot. 

Her comm buzzes, and Ahsoka raises it closer to her mouth. It’s the emergency one, the one she gave Wolffe and Rex before she left Dantooine.

“Ahsoka? Ahsoka, I know you said not to contact you, but I need an e—”

There’s a loud thump on the other end, and then the transmission ends. Ahsoka pulls up on the speeder, and presses on her comm. “Rex? Rex?”

There is no response, and she swallows before she tries again. “Rex, come in.”

There’s nothing, and Ahsoka keeps trying, holding the comm down for so long that when she finally releases it, the imprint of the button has been stamped into her fingers.

Ahsoka leans her head in her palms. Rex has to be okay. He is okay. He has to be. Because if Ahsoka loses one more person to the Empire, she’ll have nowhere to go. She won’t have anyone left. 

But she can’t go back for him, because if she does, then all of this was for nothing. Buying the speeder, meeting Izoli, all of it was pointless. And the flare in the Force will fall into the hands of the Empire.

Ahsoka opens her eyes, and leans back in her speeder seat. Once she finds the source of the flare, she’ll go back for him. 

Tatooine’s three moons stare down at her, and Ahsoka stares back. Like the eyes of a beast, they watch her as she pushes her speeder faster and faster.

* * *

Ahsoka has been driving for the better part of the night when the relative calm is shattered. Low, unintelligible words break the silence, along with a loud scream. 

She shoots up, and veers away from her destination and towards the scream. The only lights on the planet are the moisture farms around the flats, and it is one of those farms that illuminates the scene in front of her.

Hooded figures slowly dragging a squirming figure away from the farm. Ahsoka’s speeder stops just short of the group, and she springs off of it with easy grace, an electrobaton clasped in her hand.

She drives it into one of the hooded figures, and holds it there while they spasm. The ground shifts under her feet, and she almost loses her footing. Ahsoka digs her feet into the sand, and moves onto the next figure.

They bring their staff down, and Ahsoka dodges. The hit leaves a large dent in the sand. Ahsoka dives behind them and draws a line up their spine with her electrobaton. They spasm like their companion, and then fall to the ground, limp. 

She turns, ready to confront the next attacker, only to watch as they sprint away, across the sand. They hop on a speeder of their own, and then they’re gone, leaving Ahsoka and her new friend in the dust.

Even the ones she electrocuted are up and running, towards their own speeders. Ahsoka stays low to the ground for a few seconds, still on high-alert, before she turns to the person on the ground.

They’re covered in sand, and even in the dark their face looks flushed. Ahsoka flicks her electrobaton off, and offers a hand.

She pulls them up. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” they turn to her, and Ahsoka takes that moment to look over their face. Straggly beard, round cheeks, and dark brown hair. No different from any human she’s met so far.

“All thanks to you, though,” the man brushes off his clothes, a sea of sand falling out when he does. He holds out a hand, and Ahsoka carefully shakes it. “Owen Lars.”

“Ashla.”

Owen glances back towards the farm—which she guesses is his—and then back to her. “I owe you one. Say, why don’t you come in for a-a meal, or something?”

“No thank you, I-I couldn’t—”

“Don’t worry about it. I owe you one.”

Owen places a hand on her back and starts to walk towards his farm. Ahsoka walks with him, albeit hesitantly. 

“You really saved my hide out there. The Tuskens are just getting bolder and bolder. One of the vaporators broke, and I’ve been trying to fix it, but I’m not very good with mechanics.”

“Uh huh,” Ahsoka laughs nervously as Owen leads her into his farm. It’s small, round, and most of it seems to be built underground. 

“Beru!” he calls, his voice carrying throughout the house. A woman appears at the edge of the kitchen, her face wet. She rushes towards Owen, and they embrace. Ahsoka looks away.

The woman—Beru, apparently—whispers to Owen, and Ahsoka tunes it out. It’s an intimate moment. Ahsoka grew used to ignoring moments like this during the war with Anakin and Padmé. She still doesn’t know how far their relationship had gone, but it was obvious enough that they had feelings for each other. Both her and Obi-Wan had ignored them, pretending to be oblivious for Anakin’s sake. 

“You saved my Owen?” Beru says. Ahsoka nods, and the other woman smiles. “Well, then I owe you one. Come, eat. You look tired.”

Beru grabs her hand and leads her down into the homestead, and Ahsoka trundles after her. The Lars seem to have a thing for leading people places without asking them first. Beru stops in front of a small alcove, and gestures for Ahsoka to sit. She does, and then Beru is off again. 

The night air is cool, and the homestead has no proper ceiling. It’s almost peaceful, until Ahsoka remembers the attackers—Tuskens, Owen called them—and she puts her guard up again. 

Owen sits down across from her, and places his clasped hands on the table. He smiles genially at Ahsoka, and she tries her best to smile back. 

“So, what brings you so far into the flats? Are you a moisture farmer?” Owen says.

“No, I’m just visiting.”

“No one visits Tatooine,” Beru pipes in, carrying a plate of steaks. She sets it down on the table, and then disappears back into the kitchen. 

“I’m looking for someone.”

Owen passes her a plate from Beru, and Ahsoka sets it down in front of her. Beru sits down, and Ahsoka looks at the meal in front of her. Beru must’ve already been cooking when Owen was attacked, or she’s the galaxy’s fastest cook. Either way, Ahsoka is more than open to the food. She’d only brought along ration bars, and the steak in front of her is mouthwatering. 

She digs in, and can’t help the way her stomach grumbles when she swallows the first bit of steak. Owen and Beru laugh.

“If you’re looking for someone, we might be able to help,” Beru says, chewing her own piece of meat, “Owen’s father owned this farm before he passed, and him and his wife were very close with the community.”

Ahsoka takes another bite of the steak, and speaks through a half-full mouth, “This is good.”

“Thank you. It’s bantha.”

Ahsoka nods, and wipes her mouth. While cooked meat was good, Ahsoka still prefers raw meat. All Togrutas do. 

“Who are you looking for?”

“Newcomers,” Ahsoka swallows the last piece of her meal. Before this, she hadn’t really been aware of how hungry she was. The ration bars kept her alive, but they still tasted like shit. “Out by the Jundland wastes.”

Beru and Owen glance at each other, and Ahsoka lowers her utensils. Owen smiles at her, but it’s tightlipped and fake. “There haven’t been any newcomers recently.”

“Really?” Ahsoka drawls, probing at them with the Force. They’re liars, and not particularly good ones either. Though, they do have some measure of shielding. She leans forwards. 

“I heard that there were. With two children.”

“No. If there were, we’d know about it. Right, Beru?” Owen laughs, but the sound is hollow and fake. 

Their shielding is weak, and Ahsoka knows that with the right amount of pressure, she could shatter them. It’d be easy to sift through their minds and find the information she needs, but Ahsoka refrains. Though she’s no longer a Jedi, she still has morals. Beru and Owen took her into their home, gave her a meal. Even if she’s sure they know about the newcomers, she can’t bring herself to break them. That kind of treatment is reserved for criminals. 

Ahsoka stares for a few more seconds, the air in the room growing thick, and then she pushes herself out of her seat.

“You said your vaporator broke, right?” Ahsoka says. Owen nods. “Then today’s your lucky day. I can fix a vaporator.”

Ahsoka has never fixed a vaporator, but she’s fixed starships of every make and model. A vaporator will be easy. Ahsoka turns away from the alcove and is up the stairs and out of the homestead before Owen can protest anything. He’s left his own tools by the vaporator, and in the early-morning light, Ahsoka can identify them.

The vaporator’s main panel has been broken open already, and Ahsoka can see where Owen has torn the wiring apart. 

She sets to work repairing it, and slowly, her mind drifts while her hands work. Owen doesn’t trust her—that much is obvious. Which only means he can be protecting someone, most likely the two children the Dug had mentioned. 

But she would find them. The Empire is already on Tatooine, and letting two Force-sensitive children fall into their hands is a failure Ahsoka can’t risk. Force-sensitive younglings were rare, and among the Jedi, they were to be protected with your life. 

That was a lesson she’d learned herself, with Petro and Katooni and Byph. She can’t help but wonder where they are now. Had they survived Order 66? Are they in hiding with another surviving Jedi, like Anakin or Obi-Wan—

Ahsoka pulls out another panel on the vaporator. Obi-Wan and Anakin are dead. Holding onto the past won’t help her when she’s in the future. She has to focus on the here and now, and the reality of the here and now is this: those children need her. Ahsoka refuses to fail.

Soft footsteps drag her out of her thoughts, and Ahsoka wheels around to find Owen standing there, wearing loose brown clothing. He looks at her for a couple of seconds, before he kneels down in the sand next to her.

“I thought that if you’re fixing my vaporator, I should at least help,” Owen says. Ahsoka gently detaches a wire.

“Thanks. It’s nice to have help,” Ahsoka is acutely aware of his movements, and tries to keep herself from tensing up too much while she works. After the war, new people getting too close was oddly unsettling. She still feels like she’s in a war zone, and even recordings of battle droids are enough for her to reach for lightsabers that aren’t there.

“You said you weren’t from Tatooine.” 

Ahsoka pulls out a wire, and studies it in the low morning light. It’s fried—most likely from the sun—and Owen is lucky the entire vaporator didn’t catch on fire when he tried to turn it on. It’s an easy fix. Ahsoka searches for a new wire amongst Owen’s various tools, “I’m not. I was born on Shili.”

She finds the wire, and watches Owen’s reaction carefully. After a few seconds, she pauses in her work and looks at him. “I was brought to Coruscant when I was young. The Jedi took me in.”

Owen does react to that, his eyes widening slightly. “You’re a Jedi?”

“ _Was_ a Jedi. I left shortly before the end of the war,” Ahsoka attaches the new wire in the old one’s place, “But that doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned the Order. I . . . I still talk like a Jedi, and act like a Jedi, and think like a Jedi.”

She meets Owen’s bewildered gaze. “I am as close to a Jedi as you will get. So Owen, if you know about the Force-sensitive children, I need you to tell me. The Empire is already on Tatooine, and if they find them before I do. . .”

Ahsoka doesn’t finish her sentence. Owen understands well enough. His eyes darken, and he takes a long breath. “They’re in the western Jundland Wastes. That’s all I know. I swear.”

Ahsoka closes the panel, and steps back from the vaporator. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Owen says, watching as the vaporator slowly comes to life. He stands next to her.

“Before I go, just one thing,” Ahsoka crosses her arms over her chest. “Is the sand really that bad on Tatooine?”

Owen laughs, and the sound carries Ahsoka to someplace calmer. “Yeah. It is.”

* * *

She reaches the Jundland Wastes within a few hours. Tatooine’s suns are both far above the horizon by the time she does, and a thin layer of sweat forms on her skin. Luckily, the wastes are full of large, jagged hills, and they provide ample shade as Ahsoka draws deeper into the wastes.

There are no more flares in the Force, and Ahsoka is so immersed in the Force searching for the children that she doesn’t notice the Tuskens until they’ve fired. She goes flying off of her speeder, the rough gravel and ground scratching at her clothes and tearing her skin. Her mask falls off of her face, but Ahsoka doesn’t bother grabbing it again. She pushes herself up, and looks towards the east. The bright sun blinds her, and she shrinks back, praying for her eyes to adjust quickly. 

They do, and the second Ahsoka can see clearly, she sprints towards her speeder. The Tuskens fire again, and the sound of their shots reverberate around the wastes. Ahsoka dodges them with ease, but then the Tuskens target her speeder.

They hit it, and Ahsoka’s speeder goes up in a bright bloom of orange and white. She skids to a stop. Her bag was on her back when she was shot off of the ship, carrying Izoli’s gifts and her money, but none of that will matter if she can’t get out of the wastes.

The Tuskens aim again, and Ahsoka books it in the direction of her bag. Her speeder is gone, her electrobaton with it, and maybe, just maybe, she can find something in her bag that can help her. 

They fire, and the blaster bolt singes Ahsoka’s calf as it burns pass. If she were a millisecond slower, it would’ve landed. It’s only by Force-given luck that they didn’t hit her. 

Ahsoka grabs her bag and hoists it over her head, using it as a shield. A deep howl echoes through the badlands, and Ahsoka shrinks back. It’s shrill, and it’s so loud that it can only mean danger. The Tuskens clamour over one another, their cries turning from excited to frenzied. They panic, and go skidding down the hill.

The cry stops, and Ahsoka falls to the ground, her body bruised from her fall. Large, diagonal slabs of rock burst out of the ground around her, and a large brown shape comes lumbering down one of them. 

Shit. The howl. It had to have a source. She pushes herself back up, holding her hands out. Though Ahsoka’s weapons are gone, she still has the Force.

The shape meanders closer, and turns into a vaguely human form. Ahsoka does not lower her hands, even when the person speaks.

“The Jundland Wastes are not to be travelled lightly,” he says. His voice carries no malice, but Ahsoka still flinches back.

She knows that voice, she knows that shape, and she knows that man. Her hands drop, and she rises from her battle stance. 

“Master Kenobi?” Ahsoka whispers, so soft that a gust of wind might carry her words away. The man in front of her stops, and raises two hands to pull down his hood. Obi-Wan’s face has more wrinkles than it did the last time she saw him, and his beard is a little more unkempt, but it is undeniably him. 

He looks just as baffled as she feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so ik im a piece of shit for leaving it like that, but in my defense, it works way better for the overall flow of the story oKAY? the next chapter shouldn't take as long as this one and should hopefully be up within three days? hopefully?
> 
> but after that there's going to be a bit of a stall in updates for about a week or so, because i have to write some finals and such before summer. after that, however, this fic will be updating on a relatively constant schedule of an update every other day !! that is going to fluctuate, and most of the time i'll tell you guys when the next update in coming in the chapter notes!
> 
> i hope you guys enjoyed this!! please don't kill me for leaving it like this!!
> 
> POSTED 13/06/2020


	9. A Beautiful Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahsoka and Obi-Wan figure things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY SO I JUST REALIZED THAT OBI-WAN AND AHSOKA NEVER HUGGED AND IM GONNA NEED SOME TIME TO EMOTIONALLY RECOVER FROM THAT FACT
> 
> ALSO THIS CHAPTER JUMPED ME IN THE ALLEY AND MUGGED ME, LEAVING ME BRUISED AND BLOODY IN A SHALLOW PUDDLE, WHICH IS MY WAY OF SAYING THAT WRITING THIS CHAPTER R U I N E D ME

For a few seconds, there is only the howl of the wind against stone. Ahsoka stares at Obi-Wan, practically drinking in his appearance. He’s changed a bit in the months since Order 66. Beard a bit longer, face a bit dirtier, but it’s him. 

Alive, unharmed, and so very close. 

Ahsoka rushes forward, barreling into him with all of her strength. Obi-Wan lets out a small ‘oof’, but he embraces her. Ahsoka buries her head in his chest, wrapping her arms around him. The Force glows around her, and Ahsoka cries. She thinks Obi-Wan might be crying too. 

There is nothing but them in that moment. All of the fear, all of the grief, is forgotten, because Obi-Wan is here, and he is alive.

He’s silent too, and once Ahsoka has composed herself she pulls away and smiles crookedly, “Master Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan smiles too, but a small spike of pain shoots through their newly-strengthened bond, “I’m not a master anymore, Ahsoka.”

“I know,” Ahsoka says, not taking her eyes off of him. “But we can pretend for now.”

They stand there, and Ahsoka can practically feel the way Obi-Wan is checking her for injuries. She’s doing the same for him. 

“Where are your lightsabers?” Obi-Wan says, and Ahsoka cringes.

“I, uh, kinda lost them. . .”

“Ahsoka, those lightsabers are—”

“—my life, I know,” she holds her hands up to placate him, “It was necessary. I-I can explain later.”

Obi-Wan nods. “I think we both have a number of things to explain. Come. I live not far away from here. We can talk there, and get you some bacta when we do.”

Ahsoka nods, and follows behind Obi-Wan. She calls her bag to her—she dropped it once she recognized Obi-Wan—and slings it over her back. Now that she’s not pumped full of adrenaline, her muscles are starting to burn. Her clothes have torn completely at her knees, and the fabric on her elbows is so thin it might tear if she moves her arm. 

She probes the bond between them. A single string, nothing like the strong rope she’d had with Anakin, but to Ahsoka, it’s more than enough. Her and Obi-Wan weren’t even supposed to have a Force bond, but he’d acted as a second master to her. Preventing a bond from forming after all the battles they’d fought was impossible.

It’s a small bond, but it is everything, and Ahsoka clutches it, lets it lead her, like a child grabbing onto their mother’s hand.

Obi-Wan is quiet, consumed in deep thought. Ahsoka hurries forward, her foot catching on a rock, and walks beside him. 

“Tatooine’s a good place to hide out,” she says, looking around the wastes. “Do the Hutts still control it?”

“Yes, but they aren’t a threat if you know how to deal with them,” Obi-Wan glance at her, a small smile on his lips. She doesn’t ask him what ‘dealing with them’ entails, but knowing his tactics during the war, she’s able to form an educated guess.

He was called the Negotiator for a reason, after all.

Obi-Wan leads her up to a small hill, where two small circular homes overlook the rest of the wastes. They blend in with the terrain, and if Ahsoka didn’t know better, she’d think they were rocks. 

The only thing that shatters the illusion is the shiny golden protocol droid that comes tottering down the hill, chattering incessantly all the while.

“Master Kenobi! After all the commotion down there, I was quite worried that you’d—”

“C-3PO?” Ahsoka stops just in front of the gleaming droid. His arms shoot up, and a garble of words fall out of his rectangular mouth before he collects himself.

“Oh, thank the maker! Miss Tano! We thought you had died!” 

Ahsoka laughs. Threepio’s rambling had been annoying on missions, but right now, she couldn’t be more thankful to see him. “Hello, Threepio. I could say the same for you.”

Threepio turns his head to Obi-Wan, and then back to the homesteads atop the hill. Obi-Wan continues towards the round structures, Threepio following him, and Ahsoka trails just behind them.

Maybe, everything will be fine. Obi-Wan is here, he’s safe, and he’s alive. Wolffe waits for her on Dantooine, and Rex—

Well, he hasn’t contacted her since that first message, which Ahsoka is desperately hoping was just a mistake. She can’t feel him in the Force, but that’s to be expected. He’s been taught how to shield moderately well by Anakin, and he’s not Force-sensitive. 

He has to be okay.

Obi-Wan opens the door, and Ahsoka follows him into the small homestead. The surface is uncharacteristically cluttered, but the home sings with warmth. It’s nothing like the bare rooms of the Temple. It’s alive.

Something slams into her legs, and it takes Ahsoka a few seconds to recognize the blue and white astromech at her feet, who is currently beeping as loud as a starfighter engine.

Ahsoka bends down and pats R2-D2, a smile stretching across her face. He rocks back and forth, talking so fast that Ahsoka can only catch a few words—Ahsoka, gone, Tatooine, Sidious—and a few choice swear words. 

Of all the Jedi, Ahsoka had come the closest to understanding Artoo, but Anakin was the only one who could really keep up with him. Still, she can understand enough of what he’s saying to understand that Artoo is more than happy to see her.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she smiles, checking over the droid for any new dents or scratches. Threepio is a protocol droid, and while he’s seen his fair share of firefights, he doesn’t get in the same trouble Artoo does.

Luckily, Artoo seems to be working well. There’s a few scrapes that she didn’t remember being there the last time she saw him, but that was before she left the Order. She stands, and turns back to where Obi-Wan is.

He’s not there anymore. Faintly, out of the corner of her eye, Ahsoka registers him. But that’s all dulled, and Ahsoka’s vision tunnels to just the woman standing in his place.

Padmé Amidala is exactly the way Ahsoka remembers. Granted, there are a few blemishes that weren’t there before, but the sharp face, the short stature, and the Force signature is the exact same.

The once-senator looks just as shocked as Ahsoka must, but after a few seconds she practically falls forward and clutches Ahsoka. She leans into Padmé, trying to stop herself from crying for the second time in only a few minutes. The woman smells like grass after it rains, like winning a battle, like coming home.

Padmé really shouldn’t be here. She had died, Ahsoka had seen the funeral, Bail Organa had told her that Padmé died, and there hadn’t been a hint of a lie from the Force, but Padmé is here, and she is _alive._

Ahsoka is taller than her now, but she bends so her head rests over Padmé’s shoulder. Her lekku are squished uncomfortably between them, but she doesn’t move. She’s here, she’s breathing, and she is very much not dead.

They pull apart, but Ahsoka holds onto Padmé’s forearms, and she does the same for the Togruta. 

“I thought you were dead,” Ahsoka whispers. Padmé’s hand strays up to her shoulder, and her gaze is so full of love and warmth that Ahsoka almost crumbles. Anakin had loved her, and so does Obi-Wan, but they were Jedi. They had hidden it—attachments were forbidden—but Padmé doesn’t. She loves without limits.

“So did we,” Padmé whispers back. Her hair is a bit more mussed than it ever was during the Republic, but she still radiates queenly elegance. Padmé’s clothes are simpler, but no less beautiful.

Ahsoka hasn’t seen her since the trial. She hadn’t gotten a second to say goodbye, and she hopes Padmé can forgive her for that. “Padmé, I’m sorry I never said goodbye. There was so much going on, and I was so conflicted, and I didn’t—”

“I know,” Padmé cups Ahsoka’s cheek, and presses a light kiss onto her forehead. “I know.”

Her voice is free of any anger, any judgement, and Ahsoka melts. They’re still here. Her family. It won’t just be her and Rex and a handful of dissenters, it’ll be her family. Together again.

She pauses, and her body rocks back and forth while she chooses her words. “Is Anakin. . . is he here?”

Padmé’s hand leaves her cheek, and rests on Ahsoka’s shoulder. Her throat bobs. “No. He was at the Temple when it happened.”

“Order 66.” Ahsoka murmurs, trying to ignore the pain settling into her bones.

She’d known he was dead before this. She had felt the bond break, she knew he was on Coruscant when it happened, but she’d thought Obi-Wan and Padmé were dead, and they were here. Why couldn’t Anakin be here too?

He had been her best friend, her brother, and she had loved him. Ahsoka can’t conceive a world where the Force allows Anakin to die and Sidious to live.

Ahsoka only nods, and Padmé grabs her hand. “Come on.”

Ahsoka glances at Obi-Wan, who nods. Padmé leads her through the small home, which Ahsoka begins to realize is really just two separate homes connected by a long hallway, and stops in front of a round door. She holds a finger to her lips, and lets go of Ahsoka’s hand.

The door creaks open, and Padmé steps in. It’s dark in the room, and while it takes a moment for her eyes to figure out what’s going on, the Force tells her immediately.

Two sleeping infants, recently born, and incredibly powerful in the Force.

The newcomers.

Around them, the Force is calm. The room is full of pure, innocent love, both from Padmé and Obi-Wan and the Force itself. They’re small, with round cheeks and tiny sausage fingers. One of them has a head of soft blonde hair, and the other has a crown of deep, dark curls. 

They are perfect. 

Padmé leads her to the blonde one, who is slowly starting to wake. They open their eyes, and Ahsoka almost starts crying again. Padmé picks up the child. Pure love wraps around her, so strong that Ahsoka can feel it even with her shields up. 

Padmé cradles the infant in her arms, and then turns to Ahsoka. On instinct, the Togruta lifts her arms, and Padmé places the child in her arms.

“This is Luke,” Padmé whispers. Ahsoka stares down at the child, who stares back at her with eyes that could rival the blue of the sky. 

“Hi, Luke,” Ahsoka murmurs, as much to herself as it is to Luke. He’s a large baby, and his skin is warm against her arms. Luke babbles up at her, his eyes wide. 

Ahsoka never spent much time in the crèche, but she knows she’s going to be spending a lot of time with Luke. He smiles, and something brushes against her shields. She lowers them, and envelops the child in warmth.

He is strong in the Force. Like so many children, he’s untrained, and his touch is rough, undefined, but he uses the Force as readily as his limbs. 

Ahsoka glances at Padmé, who is standing between both of the cradles. “They’re yours?”

“Yes,” Padmé smiles proudly. Ahsoka grins at her as Luke wraps one of his chubby fists around one of her fingers.

“They’re beautiful,” Ahsoka gazes down at the other child, who is slowly starting to wake. Padmé follows her gaze, and reaches towards the other twin.

She brings the dark-haired child up, and lets them rest against her chest. “This is Leia.”

“Hi, Leia,” Ahsoka says, leaning a bit closer so she can make out Leia’s features. Even at such a young age, Leia looks like her mother. Dark hair, gently curved nose, but her strong jaw isn’t from Padmé, and even just thinking of that hurts.

Ahsoka looks down at Luke, at his brilliant eyes, and then slowly meets Padmé’s eyes. “They’re Anakin’s.”

Padmé nods, one of her fingers slowly brushing Leia’s cheek. “Yes.”

For a few tentative moments, both women stand there. Anakin had always had attachments, to Obi-Wan, to her, and to the Senator, but Ahsoka never knew the true depth of their relationship. She knew Anakin had loved her, and that the Senator most likely loved him back, but she always assumed those feelings would go unspoken. 

“I didn’t think he had it in him,” Ahsoka says, smiling softly. Padmé’s face flushes, and she adjusts Leia in her arms.

“We were married, actually.”

Ahsoka’s head jerks up, and she’s sure that if she weren’t holding Luke, her reaction would be even more animated. “Since when?”

“First battle of Geonosis.”

Ahsoka looks down at Luke, and without thinking, says, “Well, now I owe your Uncle Rex twenty credits.”

Being on Tatooine with her grandmaster, the closest thing she had to a mother, and her master’s children is not the life Ahsoka envisioned for herself so many years ago, but it is as good a life as any.

* * *

When Padmé woke up today, she did not think she would be having this conversation. Much less with Ahsoka Tano, of all people.

Truthfully, her and Obi-Wan assumed Ahsoka was dead. She had been en route to Coruscant when the Chancellor— _Emperor_ —had given the Order. There had been nothing from her since then, and Padmé had tried her hardest not to think about the young woman. 

Because she is a young woman now. Sitting in front of her, politely sipping Obi-Wan’s tea, is a well-rounded, smart, kind young woman. Her montrals have grown taller, and her lekku fall over her chest and begin to brush her waist. She is no girl, no child anymore.

Though, she is still Ahsoka. At moments, Padmé can see her bright personality shine through. That wildness, that fire. And, at moments, Padmé sees herself, she sees Obi-Wan, and she sees Anakin.

Padmé takes a sip of her tea, and waits for Obi-Wan to come to the table. Ahsoka had questions, and so did Padmé. Mostly about the clones.

Rex had been a good friend of Anakin’s, and the only other person (besides maybe her handmaidens) who had known of their marriage. Dealing with the thought that he had, most likely, killed Ahsoka had been difficult.

But Padmé got through it. She always got through it.

Obi-Wan pulls out a chair and sets his tea down on the table. “I believe we have much to discuss.”

Ahsoka nods, tracing the rim of her cup with a fingertip. “The clones aren’t evil.”

“What?” Obi-Wan says. Ever so slightly, his grip on his cup tightens. Ahsoka pauses.

“Did Anakin tell you what happened with Fives?”

“No, but I knew about it. He removed his inhibitor chip. Became violent.”

Ahsoka shakes her head. “The chips weren’t stopping them from being aggressive. It was making them aggressive. The chips had an order coded into them to make them kill the Jedi.”

Padmé takes a sip of her own tea. She hadn’t been close to the clones the way that the two Jedi had, but she had known them. Old drafts of bills for clone rights are still on her datapad, and she’d been an advocate for them in the Senate. 

Even then, it was still a surprise when they came to her apartment. Obi-Wan had told her about his own experiences later. Though he did not tell her, Padmé could see the way he tensed when he talked about Cody, the way his voice grew quiet. It had been hard for him. 

“How can you be sure?” Obi-Wan asks, his gaze focused on Ahsoka. 

“Because I found the chip in Rex. The second I removed it, he was normal. He didn’t want to hurt me, but he didn’t have a choice,” Ahsoka has one hand wrapped around her abdomen, while the other gestures while she talks. 

She could’ve been a good senator. People like it when you use your hands.

Obi-Wan is silent for a few moments, his eyes closed, and Padmé only watches. There’s a few flickers of something across his face, but he remains serene. A Jedi, even in the worst moments.

“We went back to the Temple,” he starts, “Yoda and I. After-after everything, we went back. We killed clones.”

Ahsoka’s face dims at that. “Yeah. Yeah, so did I. Our ship crashed, and I couldn’t. . .”

Padmé reaches across the table and rests a hand on Ahsoka’s arm. “That’s not your fault.”

“I know,” the Togruta sinks down in her seat, “But still. I just wish that I could’ve done _something._ ”

Padmé stares into her own tea. The last four months haven’t exactly been easy for her. Adjusting to Tatooine was simple enough. Adjusting to life without Anakin wasn’t.

At least the twins are here, and they’re healthy. Warmth blooms in her chest just thinking of the two infants. The birth was on Polis Massa, a planetoid far from the reach of the Emperor, shortly after Obi-Wan rescued her. It had been hard, but she had made it through. Anakin had given her one last gift.

“How did you survive Order 66?” Ahsoka says. Padmé doesn’t look up until a few seconds of silence have passed, and she realizes Ahsoka wasn’t talking to Obi-Wan.

She takes a deep breath, and begins to recount the story.

The Jedi Temple had been burning for hours, and Padmé had been watching for just as long. She was still in her nightgown, chrono clutched in one hand. She spared a glance at it. 

2300\. Five hours since everything started to burn. Threepio was speaking, his voice even more nervous than usual, but Padmé hardly paid attention.

Anakin couldn’t be in the Temple. Not anymore. He was good, and he was strong, and if anyone could make it out of the Temple, it would’ve been him. There were no other options in her mind.

Her handmaidens had long been dismissed, leaving Padmé along in her apartment. Artoo was plugged into the wall, and Threepio was pacing around the apartment. Padmé was only staring as the Temple went up in flames, dull plumes of smoke sprouting from the ancient building. 

Surely, the Jedi had to be fine. They had all seen service at one point or another, and a horde of Separatists would be easily defeated. 

But then why was the Temple burning?

Padmé turned away from the window, her heart beating steadily in her chest. She placed a hand on her stomach, and got a kick in response. She smiled, focusing on her child instead of the burning Temple. If this had happened months ago, she would’ve checked it out herself. Strapped her blaster to her side, hauled Artoo into a speeder, and run to the Jedi Temple. But that had been then. She had a child to worry about, and she owed it to them not to do anything reckless.

She supposed that would fact would remain even after the child was born. Padmé would be a parent. With Anakin on the front lines, she would have to pull herself back. If the worst happened, the child would need at least one parent. Anakin couldn’t pull out of the war, but she could.

Padmé couldn’t resign from the Senate, especially with the war going on, but she could stop putting herself at such risk. No more investigating, no more mercy missions. Not when she had a child on the way.

Slowly, Padmé eased herself onto her couch and leaned back, the pressure against her lower back slowly abating. She was a small woman, and she knew the pregnancy would take a toll on her. At the end of her third trimester, she looked positively giant. It’d gotten harder and harder to hide, but her handmaidens were creative. They had bought new dresses with empire waistlines, billowing robes that devoured her small frame, elaborate outfits where all the pomp and grandeur hid her swollen stomach.

They had been good to her over the years. Padmé just wished they were here now. That way, maybe she would do something other than worry. 

Her turbolift chimed, and Padmé sprung up from her seat as fast as a pregnant woman could. He was here. He was safe.

“Ana—” Padmé said, stopping before she could form the last syllable. The men in front of her were not her husband. Clones, with the blue markings of the 501st. Had Anakin sent them? Were things truly that serious?

Padmé’s face snapped into neutrality, and she gave them her best Senator Amidala smile. “Is everything okay, sirs?”

The clones glanced at each other, and adjusted their grip on their blasters. Protectively, Padmé took a step back and set her hands over her stomach. There was no use hiding it now. In the loose nightgown, the clones were sure to notice her obvious pregnancy.

“We’re to take you to the Chancellor, Senator.”

Their voices were strangely robotic, but that wasn’t what set off Padmé’s alarms. The mention of Chancellor Palpatine did that. Her relationship with him had taken a change for the worst. Though it had been tenuous for most of the war, the Petition of 2000 had broken it entirely. 

So why did he want to see her?

“Is everything okay?” Padmé asked, taking another step backwards. There was a blaster hidden in the arm of her chair, if she could just get to it, she’d have something to protect herself. 

“The Jedi have attempted to take over,” one of the clones said, “We are to take you to safety.”

“Take over?” Padmé said, collapsing into her chair. A hand danced ever closer to the arm of the chair. She didn’t have to feign the confusion in her voice. Tension amongst the Jedi had been heightened—Anakin’s testimony proved that much—but it was always between them. Never the Chancellor.

Though, Anakin had divulged that the council asked him to report on the Chancellor’s affairs. Spy. But they weren’t planning a full out coup. They were Jedi. Anakin trusted the man (perhaps too much, in Padmé’s opinion) and none of the other Jedi had seemed to harbour any ill will towards him.

So why a coup? They had means, opportunity, but no motive. They were Jedi, they didn’t crave power—

“Senator, you are to come with us,” the clones inched closer, their blasters raising slightly. Padmé pushed herself further into the chair, her hand hovering above the hidden compartment in the arm.

“I think I’d rather stay here.” 

“You have to come with us.”

Padmé braced herself, and rose up a bit in her chair. The weight of her belly made her slow, and if she wasn’t able to time it perfectly, the clones would kill her child. And if she waited, the Chancellor would kill her. The solution was simple.“It doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice.”

She ripped the compartment open, wrapped her fingers around the slim blaster, and flung herself out of the chair and behind the couch as quickly as she could, making sure to land on her back. The rough landing knocked the air out of her, but she still struggled to get up and start firing. 

The clones threw commands between themselves, but it meant nothing to Padmé. They didn’t fire, so they must’ve had orders to bring her alive.

For a moment, she considered if she was making the right decision, and then she popped her head over the couch and fired.

The shot flew through the clone’s armour, landing straight and true in the middle of his chest. After she fired, Padmé sunk down behind the couch again. She was tensing her muscles, preparing to fire again, when the turbolift chimed, and a dull hum filled the apartment.

A shout, a faint grunt, the buzz of a lightsaber as it cut through flesh, and then nothing. Only the sound of a lightsaber and the smell of burnt meat.

Anakin. It had to be Anakin, because he would be the only one who would come for her like this, but Padmé didn’t look, because if it wasn’t him, then that would mean that he was dead. 

She stayed pressed behind the couch, her child kicking her all the while, and tried not to make a noise.

“Senator Amidala?” 

Padmé was flooded with both relief and agony, but she stuck her head up from behind the couch and pretended nothing was wrong. 

Obi-Wan’s face morphed into one of relief, and Padmé pushed herself off of the floor and stood up. She pulled her shoulders back and pretended that everything was fine. 

“Master Kenobi,” she smiled, her voice only shaking slightly. Obi-Wan’s lightsaber hissed off, and he clipped it back onto his belt. He lacked his normal brown robe, and was only dressed in his pale tunic. “The clones said the Jedi tried to take over.”

“I don’t know anything about that, but you need to get out of here,” Obi-Wan stepped forward, and Padmé waddled towards him, blaster still clutched in one hand.

“Tell me what’s going on,” she said. Obi-Wan stared for a few moments, his eyes flicking around her apartment, before he let out a long breath through his nostrils.

“The clones are attacking the Jedi Temple. I don’t know why, but it seems that they’re attacking Jedi across the galaxy.”

“And Anakin?”

Obi-Wan frowned. “In all honesty, I-I hoped he would be here. With you.”

He knew. Maybe not about the marriage, but about them. And now, he knew about the pregnancy she had tried so hard to conceal. Padmé, for once, was speechless.

“He’s at the Temple.” Padmé whispered. Obi-Wan nodded, closing his eyes. 

“I can’t feel him.” 

Padmé dropped her blaster, one hand going to her stomach, and the other going to her mouth. The bond between Jedi—no, between Anakin and Obi-Wan, as _brothers_ —was strong. To not be able to feel it, especially when he was so close, meant he had died along with the rest.

_Anakin, I can’t do this alone. Please. You can’t leave me, Anakin, please_. Padmé begged, hoping he could hear her. He had told her once (while they were in bed, his head nestled in the crook between her shoulder and neck, a soft smile on his lips) that Jedi couldn’t read thoughts, and Padmé prayed that he was wrong, and that wherever he was, he could hear her, because Anakin Skywalker wasn’t dead. He wouldn’t leave her. 

“Padmé. Padmé, breathe.” Obi-Wan whispered, bending down slightly so they were at eye-level. He set his hands on her shoulders.

“Is he dead?”

“Pa—”

“Is he dead?” Padmé whimpered, her hands tearing at Obi-Wan’s tunic. The Jedi held her teary gaze, before he closed his eyes, pressed his lips together, and slowly nodded.

He began to cry when she did, and they collapsed in on each other. The crown of her head pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around her.

They stood there, both of them heaving with sobs, for what seemed like eternity, when Obi-Wan’s voice broke the silence. “I felt him die.”

Padmé slowly raised her head, and her tears were torn from her anew when she saw the way Obi-Wan had crumbled. Anakin was her husband, but he was Obi-Wan’s padawan, Obi-Wan’s son, Obi-Wan’s brother in every way that mattered. And he had felt him die.

Perhaps the Force had given her a gift when she was born blind to it.

“What do we do now? A-are there any survivors at the Temple, do we go back for them? Obi-Wan, what do we do now?” she said. 

Obi-Wan was still, and then he slowly drew himself up. “Anakin was the father, wasn’t he?”

Padmé nodded.

“Then the child will be strong in the Force,” Obi-Wan placed his hands on Padmé’s upper arms, his throat bobbing as he spoke. “We must get you off of Coruscant.”

“But what about the Temple, the Jedi—”

“I can’t feel anything. We have to leave them,” Obi-Wan choked out, and Padmé watched as a part of him burnt out. Slowly, Padmé nodded. 

“Threepio?” she called, waiting until the golden droid walked around the corner to continue, “Wake Artoo. And get the essentials.”

She turned back to Obi-Wan, “I have a ship. Do you have somewhere we can go?”

“Polis Massa,” He responded near instantly. Padmé tried not to think of Anakin, and summoned every ounce of willpower she had to stop herself from crying again. Artoo buzzed to life, and Threepio hurried around the apartment. 

Padmé and Obi-Wan rushed to her skydock, and tried to ignore the smoking bodies of the two clones as they left for Polis Massa. 

Padmé finishes her tea at the same time she finishes the story, and ignores the way her heart is pulled by grief. Ahsoka is slumped over the table, one arm wrapped around herself, and the other cradling her head as her head slumps down.

It takes her a few moments to realize that Ahsoka has begun to cry, and Padmé is out of her seat pulling Ahsoka closer to her in a few moments more.

She closes her eyes, and Ahsoka sinks into her. 

After a few more moments, Obi-Wan’s warm weight joins them, and they share their grief.

* * *

Tatooine has a beautiful sunset. 

Really, it’s the only think Ahsoka can think about while she sits outside of the house, because if she lets her mind wander, then she thinks of other things. Painful things.

So for now, she focuses on Tatooine’s double sunset.

She’d travelled to the planet before, during the war, and had seen the double sunset before, but she’d been dealing with war and a grump Huttlet and the growing feeling that her master didn’t believe in her, so she didn’t pay attention to the sunset then.

She does now. The Jundland Wastes are silent, with the occasional call of a krayt dragon, and Ahsoka revels in it. Her stomach is full after dinner—courtesy Obi-Wan—and Ahsoka is warm.

It is one of the best scenarios she could’ve asked for, all things considered. Padmé is alive. Rex is alive. Obi-Wan is alive. Luke and Leia are alive. Ahsoka is alive.

Anakin is not, and that’s so painful that Ahsoka is torn away from the sunset for a few seconds, and a new wave of grief washes over her.

It’s not fair, but nothing ever is. The war wasn’t fair, her trial wasn’t fair, and the fact that she lost her brother so soon after reuniting with him sure as hell isn’t fair.

The low creak of the door distracts her, and Ahsoka twists to greet whoever is joining her.

Padmé sits down next to her on the steps, and for a few seconds they don’t say anything. They merely swim in each other’s presence, finally reunited. When the pain comes again, it’s tempered by the familial love they share.

“Tatooine always had a beautiful sunset,” Padmé speaks first. Ahsoka snorts.

“I was thinking the exact same thing,” she murmurs, fiddling with her fingers. The sunset paints everything in shades of orange, like a painting in Padmé’s apartment come to life. 

“I put out a bed for you on the couch. It’s not the best, but. . .” Padmé says. 

“That’s still better than in the Temple.”

Padmé laughs, joyously, and then, “Was the Temple truly that bad? I always thought Anakin was exaggerating.”

Both of their smiles fade a bit at that, and Ahsoka breaks the tension that forms after, “I have to leave for Dantooine soon. You’re coming with me, right?”

She hates how much she sounds like a child, but Ahsoka can’t afford to be separated from Padmé or Obi-Wan or Threepio or Artoo or the twins right now. Leaving them would tear another wound, and Ahsoka doesn’t know how many more wounds she can take.

“Dantooine?”

“With Wolffe, and Rex, and everyone else.”

Padmé furrows her eyebrows, “Why would we go to Dantooine?”

Ahsoka sits up a bit more, “To fight the Empire.”

At that, Padmé winces. She looks down at her feet, and Ahsoka just watches, because surely Padmé is coming with her. The Empire took everything from them. It’s the antithesis of everything Padmé stood for during her tenure as a senator, everything Obi-Wan fought for during the war. Surely, they’re coming.

“We have to stay here.”

Ahsoka’s lips part, and she searches Padmé’s face for a hint of a lie, because this has to be a joke. People need her. People need them. “I—why?”

“The twins. We need to protect them, Ahsoka. We can’t do that if we’re running from the Empire.”

“But you’re already running,” Ahsoka adjusts her seat on the stairs and turns her body so she’s facing Padmé directly. 

“Luke and Leia. . . they’re like their father. Powerful. The Empire will be after them, and I can’t lose them. They need me,” Padmé’s voice is so full of sorrow, of desperation, and Ahsoka nearly starts to cry for what feels like the sixth time in as many hours.

“The Empire is already here,” Ahsoka protests, “As long as the Empire exists, you’ll keep running. Sidious won’t stop until you’re dead or he is, you know that,” Ahsoka’s voice rises with every word, growing so loud that her voice echoes around the wastes.

Padmé does not look at her. She closes her eyes, and Ahsoka watches as she cycles through a million expressions, a million personas, all in the span of a few seconds. Padmé, Senator Amidala, Padmé Naberrie, Queen Amidala, Naboo’s champion, the woman who had defeated the trade federation, the woman who had led a system at fourteen, the woman who had been her mother in everything but name.

“I have spent my entire life being selfless, fighting for others, risking my life for others, dedicating everything I have to _others_ ,” Padmé murmurs, “Please, just this once, let me be selfish. Let me be selfish.”

Ahsoka stays on the stairs, debating on whether or not to leave.

Dantooine is waiting. Rex is waiting—his last transmission springs to mind—and Wolffe is waiting. The galaxy is waiting. Ahsoka can’t leave them to rot. 

But she can’t leave Padmé and Obi-Wan. Not like this. 

She makes up her mind then and there.

“I won’t leave unless you come with me,” Ahsoka says, her voice just loud enough to be heard. “I’m not leaving. Not again.”

Padmé finally looks at her, and Ahsoka can feel how the once-senator argues with herself, before determination settles into her eyes. “Then you will see a thousand more beautiful sunsets.”

* * *

At first, Ahsoka assumes the screaming is from the Tuskens, or a krayt dragon. Then, something dark claws at her shields, and Ahsoka is up and out of the door, Obi-Wan following after her.

The ship that flits overhead is not one Ahsoka has ever seen before. Most likely new. Large, flat panels line a small circular cockpit, and every time it flies by the house, the screaming starts again.

Whoever is piloting it, they are the same person from the ship. Their anger is renewed, and their pain glows like an ember. Ahsoka does not have her electrobatons, or her lightsabers, but Obi-Wan has his, and he’s already calling on the Force to bolster him. 

The ship roars over their heads, and begins to slow. Ahsoka sinks into a battle-stance. She has no lightsabers, but she has the Force. Obi-Wan has dug his feet into the ground next to her. His lightsaber isn’t activated, but it stands at the ready.

Ahsoka knew the Empire would be here soon, she had told Padmé, and the very next morning, a strange ship and a dark presence greeted them for breakfast. Maybe Ahsoka should’ve sold her services as a fortuneteller.

At the base of the hill, the ship begins to touch down. It settles on the ground, and the cockpit opens from the top. The person who hops out is drenched in the dark side, and Ahsoka recoils when she reaches for them. 

They take a few steps towards them, and stop a few metres before them.

A female Zabrak. Short, cropped hair, bright red skin, and sickeningly yellow eyes. At her hip hangs a lightsaber, a semi-circle attached to the hilt. 

“Leave,” Obi-Wan says. The Zabrak rolls her head, and her bones crack. 

“Come on, Master Kenobi. I thought you were better than that.” she keens, her voice low and predatory. Obi-Wan adjusts his stance, and Ahsoka keeps herself low.

“Oh, so you know of me?”

“I _know_ you,” the Zabrak snarls, unclipping her lightsaber. She does not ignite it, but only twirls the hilt in her fingers.

“Then why don’t you level the playing field?” Obi-Wan taunts. “You know me. It’s only fair that I know you.”

The Zabrak bows mockingly, pure malice emanating from her. Ahsoka keeps herself light on her feet. A small smile stretches the Zabrak’s face. “First Sister, at your service. The original Inquisitor.”

First Sister moves like a serpent striking, and so does the Force. She flings Ahsoka to the side, and then she’s falling.

It’s only a few metres down the side of the rocky hill, and reflexes honed after years in the war save her from any bruising. Ahsoka catches herself before she hits the rocks. Relief washes over her, and then fear. 

First Sister lands in front of her, lightsaber ignited, and Obi-Wan hops down after her, his brilliant blue blade illuminating the harsh contours of his face.

Ahsoka jumps back as First Sister jabs at her. She has no lightsabers, no weapons, no defense. But Obi-Wan does, and he distracts First Sister. 

The Inquisitor uses both ends of her lightsaber to pummel Obi-Wan into the ground, but his defense holds. He moves quickly, blocking one end and then the other. First Sister is acrobatic, powerful, stunning, but she lacks the control Obi-Wan has.

And she lacks the awareness Ahsoka has.

The Togruta springs forward when First Sister has her back to her, and digs her feet into the back of First Sister’s knees. She crumples, and Ahsoka back-pedals while First Sister lashes out wildly with her weapon. 

The Zabrak wheels around, her lips parted in a snarl, and comes for Ahsoka. Ahsoka leans into the Force, and uses it to push First Sister slightly off balance. She moves faster than she ever has, using small shoves on First Sister’s elbows, shoulders, knees, torso, to knock her blows away and render her lightsaber useless.

Obi-Wan raises his lightsaber above his head and brings it down behind First Sister, who only barely manages to bring her lightsaber around to parry. Ahsoka jams two pointed fingers into the back of her neck, and First Sister writhes involuntarily.

Another strike comes from Obi-Wan, and another parry comes from the Zabrak. They fall into the dance, with First Sister twirling her staff and Obi-Wan parrying each and every hit flawlessly.

Ahsoka takes the moment to step back and breath. They are surrounded by jagged rocks, some as big as the house on the hill, some as small as a blaster.

The Force welcomes her, and Ahsoka raises the smaller rocks, focusing all her energy on them, and flings them at First Sister.

Obi-Wan glances at her, and the Zabrak uses the opportunity to kick him in the stomach and onto the ground. First Sister destroys the first wave of rocks, but the second waves tears through her skin like flimsi. 

Ahsoka keeps them coming, waiting for Obi-Wan to stand up, to pick up his lightsaber and just get up. She’s running out of rocks, and First Sister is running out of patience. 

She charges. Ahsoka tenses, preparing to run, but doesn’t go anywhere. Large boulders block both her left and right, and the smile on First Sister’s face tells Ahsoka that’s intentional. 

Ahsoka raises her arms instinctively, waiting for the burn of the lightsaber. The Force tightens, and then it snaps. 

The sound of a single blaster bolt rings through the wastes, and Ahsoka cracks open an eye—when had she closed her eyes?—to see a smoking hole in First Sister’s forehead, and a very pissed Padmé Amidala standing behind her. 

What remains of First Sister slumps to the ground, her deactivated lightsaber falling to the ground next to her hand. Obi-Wan pushes himself up from the ground, and Ahsoka steps over First Sister’s corpse. 

“How long will it take us to get to Dantooine?” Padmé asks, her voice tinged with. . . with something. Something Ahsoka can’t place. But right now, it doesn't matter

They’re going to Dantooine. They’re going to Rex and Wolffe, and they’re going to do good things. To bring down the Empire. Ahsoka smiles, and a hint of a grin pulls at Padmé’s lips. They’ll take down the Empire, and they’ll do it together. As a family. And Ahsoka won't let anything else tear them apart. 

“A few days, give or take. We need a ship. Mine was looted.”

Obi-Wan clips his lightsaber to his belt, and stops in front of Ahsoka and Padmé. “How did you manage that?”

Ahsoka waves a hand dismissively, “It’s Tatooine.”

“Do you have money for a new ship?” Obi-Wan crosses his arms over his chest and raises a hand to stroke his beard. 

“Not enough,” Ahsoka answers, before slowly turning around to stare at First Sister’s corpse, “But I think an Inquisitor’s head will sell for enough.”

Ahsoka isn’t really sure what an Inquisitor is, but she had a lightsaber and a Star Destroyer. If someone was that important, someone else would have a bounty on them. Obi-Wan steps forward, to her side, and nudges First Sister’s body with a dusty shoe, “How are you going to find someone who will buy it?”

Ahsoka grins, and folds her arms over her chest. “I have a friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god okay so
> 
> everyone who said they thought padmé was alive was 100% right. senator padmé amidala is a tough bitch who would never die and i've known this since the first chapter. i just decided to be a lil shit and hide it from everyone. 
> 
> how that worked: padmé was never force-choked by anakin, therefore she didn't go into labour as early as she did in the movies. if you're a fan of the sidious-siphons-padme's-lifeforce-to-save-darth-vader theory (which i am) then that didn't happen because mustafar never happened!! yay!
> 
> and yeah i know that TIE fighters weren't super common until like 18-17BBY but legends canon says that prototypes were being used as early as one week after the empire's establishment so 
> 
> on a slightly sadder but also happier note (about me):
> 
> TW for mentions of suicidal ideation 
> 
> i just wanted to thank everyone who's reading this story right now. everyone. yes, that means you. i've had clinical depression for the last few months, and most likely a couple years before that, along with an anxiety disorder since i was young. the last couple of months have been difficult for me. 
> 
> so i mean it when i say that the comments, the kudos, even the hits (which means YOU!!), are making me happier than i have been since i was nine. the response this fic has gotten makes me so happy. the weeks before i posted this were very, very difficult, as i was dealing with heightened suicidal urges and was actively planning to kill myself. 
> 
> while i'm still dealing with that, knowing that people are looking forward to seeing this fic finished does make me a bit more willing to live. i'm so thankful for each and everyone of you, and i genuinely love you guys. even if we've never talked. i'm still dealing with everything i mentioned above, but this fic has given me genuine hope. hearing that people enjoy my writing makes me grin like a literal idiot. seriously. sometimes in the middle of reading comments i have to get up and walk around my room because im ecstatic.
> 
> so thank you. each and every one of you. when i say how much i appreciate your comments and feedback (and even the people who are reading this right now and have never talked to me!!) i mean it wholeheartedly. the people reading this fic have genuinely saved my life. that's not an exaggeration.
> 
> on a less depressing note, the update schedule for this fic!!  
> i am almost done my classes for this year, and i just have to write a math final tomorrow + finish up one final assignment!! after that, it's summer!!! woohoo!!! because of that, there might be a bit of a delay in the next update, but i am not abandoning this fic!! 
> 
> my grandpa's birthday is at the end of june, so while i may take a few days off from writing to go visit (covid restrictions are starting to lift in my country) updates should be fairly constant!! i expect this fic to be finished by august. most of the time, i'll leave notes in here on when i expect the next update to be out!! 
> 
> thank you guys so much for reading!!
> 
> POSTED 17/06/2020


	10. The Winds of Dantooine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padmé and Obi-Wan land on Dantooine for the first time.

From inside of the ship, Dantooine looks like a sea of grass. Nothing but green hills and the occasional settlement.

Ahsoka said the Empire had no presence here. Looking at the peaceful planet, Padmé can almost believe it. But she had spent years working with Palpatine. Once, she was considered his protégée. If there is anything those years have taught her, it is that Palpatine is always in control. Every conversation, every meeting, Palpatine was the one pulling the strings. He could make her feel like she had power over him, but only when it was to his advantage.

Those years tell her that the Empire is somewhere on this planet. Maybe not in droves, but there is at least one agent somewhere. Low-level, most likely, but there’s a chance that an Imperial officer is here. Or an Inquisitor.

Whatever those are. Dantooine grows closer, and Padmé looks away from the viewport. Leia is laying on one side of her chest, Luke on the other. One of her hands ghosts over Luke’s soft hair. The Inquisitor had come for them. Her children. 

Neither Ahsoka nor Obi-Wan are sure of what exactly the Inquisitor was or what her larger role in the Empire was, but Padmé knows one thing. The Inquisitor—First Sister, she called herself—had come for the twins. Obi-Wan had told her that the twins were strong, had told her that they shine in the Force, but Padmé didn’t know what that meant. She thought them safe on Tatooine.

She won’t make the same mistake with Dantooine. The ship touches down on the ground, and Padmé slowly rises out of her chair, leaning back slightly to keep the twins from sliding off of her chest. They’re getting big, and soon she won’t be able to hold them like this. But for now, they fit perfectly. 

Leia’s fist hits Padmé’s shoulder, and she looks down at the infant. Already, Leia and Luke are so different. Even when they were born, they had been different. Luke had been calmer. He had screamed, just as any child would, but it was nothing compared to Leia. She had been fighting since her first breath. 

Now, Luke is more docile. He’s content to observe and listen, whereas Leia is always reaching. They’re a few weeks over four months old, and Leia can’t even roll onto her stomach, but the twins still babble at her.

Padmé sets both children into their cribs, and wipes a bit of the baby spittle off of her chest. Moving them to Dantooine is risky, but it wasn’t like they could stay on Tatooine either.

“Need a hand?” 

Padmé looks away from the babies and towards the door, where Ahsoka leans against the frame with calm confidence. Padmé smiles, “If you’re not too worn out from the flight.”

Ahsoka pushes herself off of the frame and stops just in front of Padmé, who is packing the twins’ things. She’d already packed earlier, while Obi-Wan was looking after them. Padmé tosses Ahsoka a small rattle, and she catches it and packs it.

They continue silently for a few minutes, before Ahsoka says, “Do you think they’ll find us on Dantooine?”

Padmé pauses, “If they try hard enough.”

Ahsoka does not respond, and Padmé zips up her bag and then turns around. Ahsoka folds one of Luke’s tiny jumpers, but her mind isn’t there. 

“Ahsoka, is everything alright?” Padmé says, pausing. Ahsoka swallows, and tucks the jumper into the last bag and zips it up. 

“I’m just. . . worried, I guess,” Ahsoka wraps her arms around her torso and stares at the ground. “Everything going on with the Empire, and the Jedi, a-and Rex, it’s a lot.”

Padmé nods, “I know.”

“And it’s not like I’m doing anything new. I’ve been doing this since I was fourteen, but it’s not like that anymore. When I was a jedi, I had the support of the Republic and the Order. Even wh-when I left, I was a citizen. I was safe. And now, everyone is trying to kill me, and there’s no where I can go to escape,” Ahsoka trembles, her voice growing low and shaky. 

Padmé frowns. The last few weeks hadn’t been easy for anyone. Padmé and Obi-Wan had some modicum of safety on Tatooine—or at least they felt like they did—but Ahsoka had spent every moment since Order 66 in open defiance against the Empire. That much time spent running can’t be easy for anyone.

She walks closer to Ahsoka and gently turns the Togruta so she’s facing her. Padmé places her hands on her shoulders and gives Ahsoka her best smile. Ahsoka smiles back, but her eyes are filling with tears.

“I know it’s different. And I know it’s a lot. But I also know you, Ahsoka. I know how strong you are, how determined you are, how smart you are. You will survive this,” Padmé says. Ahsoka’s smile grows, and a few small tears slip down her face. 

Padmé means every word she said. Ahsoka became something of a surrogate daughter to both her and Anakin during the war, and she’d watched her turn from an impulsive but charming youngling to an experienced, thoughtful commander. That was to be expected when one grew up during a war.

“Thank you, Padmé,” Ahsoka murmurs, using the palm of her hand to wipe away her tears. Padmé takes a moment to look at her markings. They’ve grown. The white markings on her cheeks have extended, and the ones on her forehead have thickened and brightened. 

“I guess Obi-Wan is probably waiting for us,” Ahsoka pulls away, and Padmé’s hands drop from her shoulders.

“Can you take the bags?” Padmé walks past Ahsoka and reaches into Luke’s crib. 

“Alright. Do you want me to get Obi-Wan to carry Leia?” 

Padmé considers it. Normally, she’d just hold both twins herself, but they’re too big now. “Yes, I think that’d be for the best.”

Ahsoka’s footsteps echo around the room as she heads to the cockpit. 

The ship is plenty large. An old CR70 corvette, with dozens upon dozens of rooms and more than enough space for the three of them. Ahsoka had dragged the body of First Sister all the way to Anchorhead, and had given it to a tall Arkanian, who had almost fainted when she saw the Zabrak. They’d spent a bit bartering, and eventually Ahsoka returned with a lightly used Corvette. How much it had cost, Padmé didn’t want to know.

Luke coos, and Padmé pulls him up and into her arms. She pulls his tiny shirt down to cover his soft stomach, and a deep warmth fills her heart. Padmé had always wanted to have children, but when she became queen, those dreams had been set aside for the betterment of her planet. In the last days of her reign, she was thinking about settling down. Obviously, she would still be involved in politics. Padmé didn’t think she could sit by and watch while corruption and injustice ran rampant. That’d been sidelined after she was asked to become a Senator.

Padmé stopped thinking about that when she married Anakin. They could hide a marriage, but there wasn’t a way to hide children. Anakin would barely be involved in their lives, and Padmé wouldn’t have a lot of time to parent alone. And having children in the middle of a war wasn’t ideal, either.

She hadn’t intended to get pregnant, but looking at Luke, Padmé is thankful. She’d been worried at first, but the second she saw her twins for the first time, she had fallen in love. Padmé is far from a perfect mother—in the months following Order 66 she barely had enough energy to get out of bed—but she loves them enough to be close. 

Padmé glances behind her, where Obi-Wan is standing in the door. Ahsoka slips by him and grabs the bags, balancing all of them easily. Obi-Wan picks Leia up, her head resting on his shoulder.

They make their way through the corvette, and step out onto Dantooine’s green plains. Artoo and Threepio trail behind them.

The settlement in front of them is low to the ground. It’s made of dull metal, and melds with the landscape around them. There’s a few ships in the hangar, and the entire base is calm. It’s a welcome change from Tatooine.

Ahsoka leads them forward, and Padmé trails behind. She clutches Luke to her chest, and stays close to Leia. Ahsoka leads them through the settlement, occasionally nodding to some of the people milling about the compound.

Some of them stare at her for a few seconds too long, and Padmé lifts her chin. Palpatine knows she lived. Ahsoka had told them that there was a funeral, and that even Bail Organa thought she died with the Jedi, and Padmé pieced it together. Palpatine had found a dead body—most likely one of her handmaidens, which made Padmé flinch a bit—and used the body in place of hers. That way, everyone thought she was dead. Padmé lost her senate seat, as well as her public influence. No one would try to look for her. Best of all, she’d be made into a martyr. 

So there was no point in trying to hide her identity. Obi-Wan was slumped a bit, keeping his face cast downwards. With Threepio and Artoo following them, she’s sure the five of them—seven if you count the twins—are a sight to see. A Senator, two former Jedi, a shiny golden protocol droid, a scuffed astromech, and two infants. 

Ahsoka leads them into the main building, swerving to avoid the other rebels rushing around the building. After few minutes, she stops in front of two small rooms. She nudges the door open with her foot. 

Padmé peers into the room. It’s small, with a simple bed and what looks like a refresher jammed into the corner. Padmé steps forward, Luke still in her arms. The room splits off into another one, where two cribs have already been set up. 

The nursery has a small window, and the inside is painted white. A dresser is built into the wall. Though not the height of luxury, it’ll be more than serviceable. Luke and Leia have enough room to move around, a place to sleep, and natural light. Padmé has a place to feed them, and privacy. 

“I know it’s not what you’re used to, but there’s plenty of of space in the rest of the base,” Ahsoka says, her voice slanting up a notch. Padmé steps back out into the main room, and smiles at the Togruta. Threepio’s golden head peeks out from behind Ahsoka, and he toddles into the room.

“Would you like me to stay here with the twins, Mistress Padmé?” Threepio says. Padmé nods. The droid isn’t built for childcare, but he’s more than able to watch over them. If they need anything, he’ll tell them.

Padmé and Obi-Wan set the twins down in the new cribs, and Ahsoka pushes their bags into the room. Padmé takes a moment to unload some of their blankets and softer toys, and sets them down with each of the twins. 

Threepio settles into the corner, and Padmé dims the lights of the room and closes the door behind her, then walks into the hallway. Obi-Wan has his own small bag of clothes, and Padmé lets Ahsoka take the lead.

Clearly, she knows her way around the base. Padmé is more than willing to follow her around. Artoo stills rolls behind them, quiet for the time being.

Ahsoka stops in front of another room, just a few doors down from Padmé and the twins, and pushes open the door.

By her standards, the room is abysmally small. A dresser built into the wall, small, flat mattress, and a door leading into an even smaller refresher. There is a single table crammed into one corner.

Obi-Wan seems perfectly content with the room, and merely places his bag onto the bed and then closes the door. Though, compared with what the Jedi gave them, the room must seem more than adequate.

“We should call Senator Organa,” Ahsoka says, and Padmé blinks. 

“That seems too dangerous for the time being,” Obi-Wan raises a hand to his chin, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Empire is monitoring his comms.”

Ahsoka pushes past them, and starts to to head back down the white hallway. “Oh, they definitely are. But Bail has a special communicator that I gave him. As long as he doesn’t use it too often, it’s untraceable.”

Padmé follows Ahsoka, “If he can’t use it very often, shouldn’t we call him in case of emergency only?”

“I think the fact that you guys are alive counts as an emergency,” Ahsoka rounds the corner into the atrium of the base. Though the ceilings are no higher than the rest of the base, there’s a few thin windows near the ceiling that let in some natural light. 

Holograms are sprinkled throughout the room, and there’s a large holotable in the middle of the room. Ahsoka glances around the room, and then waves. A man hunched over the table turns, and his one eye is immediately drawn to Obi-Wan and Ahsoka. He snaps into a salute, but before he can finish, his hand drops. Obi-Wan isn’t a general anymore. He has no reason to salute.

The clone walks up to them. His left eye is a cybernetic, and his eyebrow is bisected by a thin red slash. He holds out a hand, “Commander Wolffe of the 104th, sir.” 

After he says it, his expression sours and he shrugs, “At least, I was.”

Padmé shakes his hand and smiles. Even though she’s never met this clone, she had heard of him, once. One of Plo Koon’s men, if her memory served her correctly. A good commander.

“Padmé Amidala,” Padmé says. Obi-Wan nods at Wolffe, and then follows Ahsoka as she starts to head down yet another hallway. Padmé, Wolffe, and Artoo jog a bit to catch up to the Togruta. 

Ahsoka leads them into a small conference room, with an old holotable in the middle. Each of them arrange themselves around it, and Ahsoka taps a few buttons. 

For a few seconds, there is only silence before a hologram sprouts. Even through the hologram, Bail looks tired. 

“Ashla,” Bail says. Ahsoka is only displaying herself, not any of the others. 

“Hello, Senator. Do you have a moment?” Ahsoka asks. Bail casts his eyes around whatever room he’s standing in, and then nods.

Ahsoka taps another button, and Padmé knows they’ve appeared to Bail. Years in the Senate have given him a near flawless sabacc-face, but she knows him well enough to see his jaw tighten.

“Senator Amidala?” he breathes. Padmé smiles. Bail has been one of her oldest allies, from her earliest days in the senate. They held similar ideals, and she was always sure of his support on her more radical bills. 

“Hello, Bail.” 

Bail turns, “Master Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan smiles too, and bows. Even now, he hasn’t given up social niceties. “Senator Organa.”

“I thought you were going into hiding?”

“I was,” Obi-Wan says, “We weren’t very good at it.”

Bail knew of Obi-Wan’s survival. On Polis Massa, shortly after the birth, Obi-Wan had left. He’d told her about it on Tatooine. He met with Yoda and Bail Organa, who told them that the Jedi Temple was broadcasting an emergency signal. Yoda and Obi-Wan went to turn off the beacon, and warn their fellow Jedi to go into hiding. Padmé assumed Obi-Wan told Bail of her survival, but apparently not.

“What happened?”

“An Imperial who called herself First Sister,” Ahsoka answers Bail’s question first, and his smile fades from his face.

“An Inquisitor,” he murmurs. Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, she mentioned that too.”

“They’re a new division of the military. The Imperial Inquisition. Meant for hunting down Jedi,” Bail explains, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his senatorial robe. Ahsoka and Obi-Wan glance at each other, and Padmé’s mind instantly goes to the twins. Though not Jedi, they carry the same power. And with their supposed ability, the Inquisition would be able to track them.

“How many of them are there?” Padmé crosses her arms over her chest. Bail shrugs.

“I don’t know. Their headquarters are heavily guarded, and we’re. . . _discouraged_ from asking. I’ve met a few of them, though. First Sister, Sixth Brother, but, other than that. . .”

Of course. Padmé watched Palpatine’s speech after the Purge, where he announced the formation of the Galactic Empire. The Senate had no real power anymore, not when Palpatine could veto any bill he wanted without anyone to stop him. 

“They’re led by Sidious?”

Bail’s eyes flicker, and he frowns, “I don’t think so. There’s a Grand Inquisitor—I think—but during their formation, the Emperor said they were under the purview of Lord Vader.”

“The Sith lord,” Obi-Wan says. Padmé is silent. Bail nods.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“And what about him? What do you know about him?” Ahsoka leans closer to the holotable. In the dimly lit room, the only light on her face comes from that of the hologram. 

“Not much. He always has a mask, and he carries a lightsaber. He’s the ‘Supreme Commander of the Imperial Military’, but no one knows where he came from. There are whispers, but none of them are credible.”

“What whispers?” Padmé says. A Sith lord, like Dooku, or Palpatine. She’d seen the kind of damage they could do.

“Some say he killed the Separatist council. Some say he’s the son of the Emperor. Some people think he’s a droid.”

“And you? What do you believe?” Padmé presses.

Bail hesitates, before he says, “Mon and I both think he used to be a Jedi.”

“A Jedi?” Padmé says.

“It makes sense,” Obi-Wan strokes his chin, “The majority of Sith were Jedi, at one point. Dooku was born into the Order, and stayed there long enough to train Qui-Gon.”

Still, Padmé doesn’t want to think about a Jedi turning like that. She had been with Anakin after his mother’s death, watched how he had collapsed. Later, he told her he was scared he would fall to the dark side. He didn’t say it, but Padmé knew he was just as scared that he had already fallen.

Darth Vader being a Jedi—maybe one she had met before—is both entirely plausible and entirely insane. 

“What does he do?” Padmé asks. 

Bail shrugs. “Chases Jedi. Puts down revolts. Though I’m not sure where he is now.”

Everyone is silent for a moment. Wolffe, who has been standing straight-backed for the entire meeting, finally speaks. “What do we do now?”

Ahsoka defaults to Bail, staring at the hologram with burning eyes. Bail pinches the bridge of his nose, and lets out a long breath before he answers Wolffe.

“I’ve gotten two messages about hidden Jedi.”

“Who?” Obi-Wan says. 

“One about Luminara Unduli, imprisoned on Stygeon Prime. The other is directly from a Jedi. Two padawans with a group of younglings. On Eriadu.”

Luminara Unduli. Mirialan, if Padmé is remembering properly. 

“But, as for Unduli, I couldn’t verify the source. Not even a location.”

“Do you think it’s real?” Ahsoka asks. 

Bail nods, “Yes. Stygeon Prime hosts the Spire, one of the worst prisons we have. And there was too much information for it to be fake.”

“And the padawans?”

“They’re trying to get off Eriadu and to Dantooine, but the planet is protected by a Star Destroyer.”

Obi-Wan stares vacantly, and Padmé wishes she knew what he was thinking. Obi-Wan hadn’t been the same after the Purge, and while she knew he had struggled with the Jedi code at points, he had believed in the Order. After Ahsoka came back, he had been the happiest she’d seen him in months. 

“Unduli is slated for execution,” Bail says, and Obi-Wan closes his eyes. His fists clench, and then he slackens entirely. The image of peace.

“Then we have to go after Master Unduli first.”

“And what about the padawan learners?” Ahsoka asks, gesturing with her hands. The blue light of the hologram highlights the curve of her cheeks, and she seems to glow under the light.

“They can hold their own, for now. Once we have Master Unduli, we can go after them,” Obi-Wan says. His face looks deathly pale, and the light draws attention to the steadily growing bags under his eyes.

“I have blueprints of the Spire. I’ll send them to you now,” Bail nods, and taps something off-screen. The holotable chimes, and Bail bows. “May the Force be with you.”

His figure disappears, and the lights in the room slowly turn on. The blueprints for the Spire pop up. It’s a massive, blocky prison, and reaches up off the surface of Stygeon Prime. Padmé leans in to look at it a bit better. Luminara’s location is highlighted with a red dot.

Ahsoka and Obi-Wan take over the conversation, both pointing at the map and talking rapidly. Padmé doesn’t understand a lot of it—there’s references to previous missions, along with military code she never learned—but she understands the gist of it.

Obi-Wan opts for an infiltration, whereas Ahsoka wants to storm the prison, get Luminara, and get out. 

His plan involves docking a ship on a small outcrop of the building, having Wolffe and Padmé secure their exit, while Ahsoka and him go to find Unduli. 

Ahsoka wants to head up the same outcrop, but she doesn’t think they should split up. Instead, they should have someone else pilot the ship, and once they’ve secured Luminara, they cut their way out of the prison and have the pilot pick them up.

Padmé carefully weighs each plan. Obi-Wan’s plan relies on the schematics being accurate, as well as Luminara’s location. But Ahsoka’s plan is risky. Clones will secure every possible escape route once they realize the prison has been infiltrated, meaning that if the plan fails, there’s no backup.

“Stop,” Padmé raises a hand, and both Obi-Wan and Ahsoka stop talking. “Obi-Wan’s plan will work best with the four of us. We’ll use Ahsoka’s plan as a backup.”

“Then we still need to have someone pilot the ship,” Ahsoka points out. Padmé glances at Artoo, who is sitting calmly next to her, and then looks back up at Ahsoka.

* * *

Artoo gets them past the ships guarding Stygeon Prime easily enough, and Ahsoka gets them through the scanners. While a droid isn’t an ideal pilot, Artoo has learned his flying from Anakin.

Obi-Wan just hopes the astromech didn’t pick up his tendency for recklessness along with Anakin’s skill. He double-checks their supplies. Ahsoka has two new electrobatons—which she’s using in lieu of lightsabers—and Wolffe has his two blasters. Padmé is more antsy then normal, and he doesn’t blame her. During her tenure as a Senator, she’d seen her fair share of firefights. But this is different.

His lightsaber hangs from his belt. Though he had won his duel with First Sister, thanks to Padmé and Ahsoka, he had been both out of practice and caught off guard. There had been so many moments where he almost lost an arm, or a leg. If he’d messed up, even once, there’s a good chance his head would be lying in the Jundland Wastes right now.

Artoo beeps, and Ahsoka nods. Obi-Wan’s understanding of binary is minimal, and limited to what he really needs to understand an astromech during battle, but Artoo’s series of beeps and whistles is simple enough.

They’re here. 

Artoo banks right, and the entire shuttle shifts. It has some firepower, but not nearly enough needed to combat the ships orbiting Stygeon Prime. The droid stops, and the shuttle door opens. Ahsoka is out of her seat immediately, and disappears from sight as she drops onto the landing platform.

_I hate it when she does that_ , Obi-Wan thinks, rushing towards the open door and jumping out, his lightsaber already in his hand. Ahsoka is latched around the back of one clonetrooper, electrobaton across his throat. The body of another lays on the floor next to her.

The clonetrooper falls to the ground and Ahsoka hops off of his back. Artoo brings the shuttle down, and the rest of the crew jumps down.

Obi-Wan kicks the clones’ blasters off of the outcrop, and adjusts his grip on the lightsaber. Ahsoka tucks her electrobatons back onto her back.

The doors chime, and part to reveal four clonetroopers. Obi-Wan reaches into the Force and tugs them all forwards, and pulls their blasters out of their hands. Ahsoka springs forward, and Padmé and Wolffe each run towards one trooper.

A clone throws a punch at him, and Obi-Wan dodges easily. He grabs the clone’s arm, and digs his elbow into the soft spot between his helmet and chest plate. The clone drops. Everyone else has already dealt with their respective clonetrooper, all non-lethally. 

He doesn’t miss the way their eyes all linger on the clones. Obi-Wan doesn’t recognize any of the markings on their armour, but he’s almost sure Wolffe does. His lightsaber seems a little heavier in his hands, and Obi-Wan prays he won’t have to use it. 

“Ahsoka, the door,” Obi-Wan turns to the Togruta, who is clad in the same armour she had worn to Mandalore. She explained that her other outfit—the one she had on Tatooine—was better suited for stealth, and this armour was better for mobility. And after killing an Inquisitor, it wasn’t like the Empire didn’t know about her.

The door hisses open, and Ahsoka steps away from the small pad next to it. For good measure, Obi-Wan rips the comlinks off of the arm of every downed clone. Ahsoka unlocks the door just as a small patrol beacon scans the landing platform.

Obi-Wan yanks the downed clones backwards, out of sight of the beacon. All four of them are silent, waiting for the bright beam of light to pass. In the cold air, their breath comes out as fog. 

The beacon passes, and Wolffe, with Padmé’s help, props up the bodies of the clones. They make it look like two troopers are guarding the door, and hide the other four out of range of thebeacon. 

A final check, and then they walk into the Spire. The door hisses shut behind them. Walls of grey stretch out in front of them, with sterile white lights giving the entire prison a feverish haze. Obi-Wan closes his eyes and stretches out his mind. 

Master Unduli had not been one of his closest friends, but they had been padawans around the same time and, as padawans are wont to do, got into more than a bit of trouble together. He knows her signature well enough to signal her out in the massive compound.

Terror (rather unbecoming of a Jedi master, his mind quips) and sorrow. Her presence is muffled—most likely due to Force-suppressing cuffs. But even so, her power draws him to her. 

“Detention block CC-01, isolation cell 0169,” Ahsoka says. Obi-Wan snaps out of his meditation to see Ahsoka huddled over one of the many screen in the hallway. 

“That’s not what the schematics said,” Padmé whispers, both her hands clasping her blaster.

“I know,” Ahsoka whispers back, fingers tapping frantically. “It just means the plan changes a bit.”

Ahsoka straightens, and looks to Obi-Wan. 

Of course. It’s his plan, after all. His eyes flick around the hallway. They need to get down to the lowest level of the Spire, meaning they’ll need a turbolift close enough to this landing platform. . . 

He steps forward and glances around the corner, “Padmé, Wolffe, you’ll hold this turbolift. Ahsoka and I will find Master Unduli.”

Padmé nods sharply, and they all file into the turbolift. Obi-Wan waits until they’re all standing before he sends them to detention block CC-01. The four of them are crammed together, and Ahsoka is pressed awkwardly to his side. 

“I told you we should’ve gone with my plan,” Ahsoka says, staring straight ahead. Obi-Wan frowns.

“Yes, because your plan would’t’ve gotten us killed.”

“At least my plan was flexible.”

“You still have much to learn, my very young padaw—” Obi-Wan stops in the middle of his sentence. He doesn’t miss the way Ahsoka’s emotions ripple when he almost said that. 

Of course. She isn’t a padawan anymore, nor is he a master. Besides, he wasn’t her master. But for a moment, she had seemed so much like Anakin, that he just started to speak without really knowing what he was saying.

The doors in front of them slide open, and two clone troopers turn around. Obi-Wan grabs both of them by the backs of their armour and drags them into the turbolift. Ahsoka slams the doors shut, and then they each knock out one clone trooper.

When the doors open again, Ahsoka is the first to step out. She doesn’t look at Obi-Wan, and he mentally chastises himself for making a slip like that. None of them needed to be reminded of him right now. 

Obi-Wan steps over the downed clone troopers, and turns to issue orders to Padmé and Wolffe. 

“Hold the lift. Don’t use comms—they’re going to monitoring for us,” Obi-Wan says, before he turns to follow Ahsoka as she navigates through the maze of hallways and cells inside of the Spire. 

They round one corner, and then another, when they come across another pair of patrolling troopers. Ahsoka knocks each one out with a well placed hit, and their bodies haven’t even hit the floor before both she’s running through the hallways again. Obi-Wan has the prescience to shove their bodies into one of the many nearby cells before he follows.

Ahsoka skids to a stop, and Obi-Wan follows suit. She crouches, the grey walls making her orange skin look even brighter than it is, and Obi-Wan peers around the corner. Two clonetroopers, each with a blaster, and no nearby cells to dispose of them in. Obi-Wan glances down and Ahsoka, and nods. She draws back, and he calmly wakes around the corner.

The clone troopers’ heads turn, and Obi-Wan raises a hand, “Should’t you two be guarding the Jedi? Her cell is on the next level.”

He puts just enough Force into his words to mind-trick the clones, who look at each other. 

“We should be guarding the Jedi,” one says.

“Her cell is on the next level,” the other agrees. Obi-Wan smiles, trying to calm the fast beat of his heart.

“You better get going.”

“We better get going.”

Both troopers run off to the nearest turbolift, and Ahsoka crawls out from behind the corner. Obi-Wan waves a hand, and the cell door slides open. 

Luminara lacks her normal black attire, but her green skin is enough for him to identify her without even checking the Force. Same purple eyes, same black tattoos. Her face is in her hands when they come in, but she looks up as Obi-Wan stops in front of her.

“Master Kenobi?” she whispers, and then she looks behind him, “Padawan Tano?”

“Come on. We’re rescuing you,” Ahsoka nudges Obi-Wan, who ignites his lightsaber. Luminara extends her shackled wrists, and Obi-Wan cuts through them. 

The cell door shuts behind them, and Luminara jerks away like she’s been hit. Obi-Wan wheels around, lightsaber buzzing in his ear. Ahsoka drops into a fighting stance, clutching her batons the same way she once held her lightsabers.

The Pau’an in front of them ignites a blood red lightsaber, and Obi-Wan switches to a one-handed grip and angles his lightsaber so it’s pointing towards the Pau’an. He hold his other arm parallel to the blade, two fingers extended in front of him in a taunt.

“Form III. Soresu,” the Pau’an mutters, mostly to himself. Obi-Wan doesn’t have enough time to respond before the Pau’an continues. “I am the Inquisitor. Welcome.”

“Ahsoka, get Master Unduli out of here,” Obi-Wan does not take his eyes off of the Pau’an—another Inquisitor, apparently—but he sees Ahsoka dart behind him and grab Luminara in his peripheral vision. 

“I do hope you’ll be more of a challenge than the last Inquisitor,” Obi-Wan taunts, watching the way the Inquisitor’s yellow eyes narrows ever so slightly at the taunt. So he’s prideful. Good.

“First Sister? She was a. . . work in progress,” the Inquisitor smiles, his voice dripping with acid. “You’ll find I’m more up to your speed, Master Kenobi.”

The Inquisitor strikes first, and Obi-Wan deflects. Their blades slide across one another, and Ahsoka takes that moment to shove the Inquisitor off balance, fling open the door, and push Luminara out of the room. The Inquisitor hisses, showing pointed teeth, and Obi-Wan jabs at his midsection. It doesn’t hit—it wasn’t intended to—but the Inquisitor still reacts. He flinches backwards, blade coming up to parry the hit. It tells Obi-Wan everything he needs to know about the Inquisitor.

The Inquisitor strikes rapidly, each hit precise. Obi-Wan deflects them, watching the way the Inquisitor moves.

Another flurry of strikes—each one just as measured as the last—and Obi-Wan parries all of them with ease. The Inquisitor pauses, and Obi-Wan uses the opening to kick him backwards and then run. He doesn’t have time to fight. The Empire knows they’re here, and Obi-Wan needs to get out now.

The Inquisitor is hot on his tail. The Pau’an is violent, but his Force signature is restrained. Deeply entrenched in the dark, but controlled. He’s not as messy as First Sister. Obi-Wan rounds a corner and spins to meet one of the Inquisitor’s strikes. He pushes the Pau’an off, and the Inquisitor uses the distance between them to ignite another crimson blade.

He recognizes that stance, the way the Inquisitor holds his lightsaber. Obi-Wan tilts his head. 

“A Temple guard,” Intentionally, Obi-Wan looks the Inquisitor up and down, “Though, not a very good one.”

The Inquisitor bursts forwards, strikes coming in rapidly. Obi-Wan hit a nerve with that one. The Inquisitor attacks with flourishes, spinning his saberstaff while he moves. Obi-Wan almost laughs. His form is good, his strikes controlled, but it’s not enough to beat him.

Their blades meet and lock. The Inquisitor’s teeth are bared, and Obi-Wan waits until the Pau’an has put his entire weight behind his blade before quickly ducking down, deactivating his lightsaber, and rolling to avoid the falling Pau’an and his lightsaber. He extends a hand, and the Inquisitor goes flying upwards. Obi-Wan sticks him there, and starts running down the hallway. 

He uses Ahsoka’s fire-bright presence to guide him to her, and flies into the turbolift. He slams his hand against the button, and the turbolift shoots upwards. The clones must know they’re here by now. And the Inquisitor is most likely coming after him right now. 

The door opens, and Obi-Wan sprints down the hallway. The Force burns through him, and it’s almost enough to ignore the way his lungs seem to fill with acid every time he breathes. 

He flicks the door of the landing platform open. Wolffe, Padmé, Ahsoka, and Luminara all hover inside of the shuttle, and Obi-Wan leaps off of the platform. Wind pushes his sweaty hair out of his face. His hands grasp the edge of the shuttle, the impact making his whole body ache. The shuttle starts to bank away from the spire, and Ahsoka grasps his wrists and pulls him in. The shuttle door closes behind him. 

Obi-Wan pushes himself up, and stumbles his way into a seat. Luminara glances at him. Her eyes are watery, but her smile is genuine. 

* * *

Sidious calls him to his own personal flagship, and Anakin drops into a kneeling position as soon as he’s more than a few metres into the throne room. Had he found out about Rex? They hadn’t even broken him out yet, there was no way Sidious could know. 

Sidious walks down the steps in front of him, his Force presence dangerously calm. Anakin is still, waiting for his master to make the first move.

“Luminara Unduli escaped.”

Anakin is caught between jubilation and sheer fucking terror. He looks up, his movements jerky. “What?”

“She was to be executed nearly a month ago. And you delayed it.”

“M-My master, I thought—”

“I do not care for your excuses, Lord Vader.” Sidious spits. His voice is little more than a growl, and Anakin tries to prepare himself for the blows that are inevitably coming.

He smells the lightning before it hits him. The sharp smell of ozone, and then everything lights up. Around his bones, his muscles tighten. He writhes, and Sidious cackles. 

The lightning lances through him, lighting every cell in his body on fire. His muscles spasm rapidly, and Anakin can barely breath, barely focus on anything. Through the red lenses of his suit, he can see fingers of lightning fill the room.

A scream tears from his throat, and Anakin clenches his teeth. His ears burst, and blood trickles down his nose. There’s a brief break, and Anakin falls to the ground. His fingers twitch uncontrollably, and he can barely feel his legs. Flashing lights burn into his eyes, and even after the lightning has passed, he can still see it burned into his retinas.

The world looks like it’s been doubled. Everything is hazy, and his vision is blocked by a layer of blood—he must’ve popped a blood vessel in his eye, he thinks half deliriously—but he can see Sidious’ grinning face.

Another wave hits him, and Anakin locks up. His muscles are so tight he thinks he might snap in half, and spit flows freely from his mouth. The suit does nothing to protect him from the lightning. Sidious probably built it that way intentionally. 

Anakin screams. He shouldn’t have sent the message, should’ve just let Luminara die with the rest of the Jedi. She was everything that was wrong with the Order. Her emotional detachment caused Barriss to bomb the Temple, caused Ahsoka to leave, and a new wave of pain burns forward at that. 

They had never done anything for him, and now Anakin is left being fucking tortured because of them. 

Sidious relents, and a cry tumbles from Anakin’s lips.

“Get up,” his master snaps. He drives his foot into Anakin’s stomach, and it only adds on to the pain already curling through him. 

Anakin pushes himself to his feet, even though he can’t feel his legs, and his right arm hangs limply, its circuits fried.

Sidious, even though he is much shorter than Anakin, seems to tower over him. Maybe that’s just Anakin’s fear getting the best of him. 

Through yellowed teeth, Sidious says, “Do not fail me again, Lord Vader.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so im kinda dissatisfied with obi-wan's pov because he's hard to write but this is about as good as it gets
> 
> ANYWAY i'm sorry for the longish wait for this chapter. i wrote my last final on wednesday, and had to spend thursday and friday busting my ass to finish a final project. but i'm done school now, which is cool ig.
> 
> it also means i now get to update this fic more !! you might've noticed that the chapter count has changed from 25 to 29 (including the epilogue), and that's because i may have shifted around one thing that changes the context of like, the entire second half of the story. general plot is the same, but one thing changed and it changed the atmosphere of the entire second half and oh boy am i excited to write that
> 
> from now, i'm hoping there should be a fairly consistent schedule, where i update every other day, and, if i can, every day. but that most likely won't happen, because the shortest chapters in this fic are 6000 words, and the longest so far has been 10 000 words (chapter eight, if you're wondering). there are some massive chapters coming up that will definitely cross the 12 000 mark, so for those chapters i'll put something in the notes at the beginning so that you guys can get some food, or water, or go to the bathroom or something. i for one don't get up until i'm finished the chapter of fanfic im reading, so for those of you out there who are like me, i will be putting a note in for some chapter so you guys don't soil your pants in the middle of reading.
> 
> thank you guys for all your support on the last chapter !! the point of the note is that i love all of you and everyone who has CLICKED ON THIS FIC (which yes, means YOU) means so much to me. i love you <3
> 
> POSTED 21/06/2020


	11. The Eriadu Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rex launches his escape plan. Padmé meets with her parents. Ahsoka searches for the Jedi padawans on Eriadu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so this is the longest chapter by far, so i guess i'm putting a warning? if you want something quick and easy to bite into, this is not it. maybe get some water or something if you're a slow reader. have fun!

Through the red of the ray shield, the holomap almost looks purple. Cody’s new blue armour is deep violet, and the general just looks red. 

Rex wipes his mouth and pushes away his plate of food. It’s basically slop, but it’s the best Cody was able to get for him. Rex leans forward and squints at the holomap. In a lot of ways, the Star Destroyer is a replica of all the ships he’d served on before. But there are a few key differences. For one, the Inquisitor currently on board.

“General Skywalker has clearance for every room on the ship, so he’ll be able to distract Third Sister,” Cody looks at Skywalker, and then back to the hologram. “You’re there.”

He points to a small red dot on one of the Star Destroyer’s lower levels. “You’re not in the standard prison block.”

“Isolation cell?”

“Yes,” Cody spins the map, and another dot pops up. “Once you’re out of your cell, we’ll get you to the armoury. You’ll get a new pair of blacks, and some armour. A troop transport is heading down to the surface at 1200. We’ll get on, and I can drop you off at your ship.”

“And how am I getting out of the cell?” Rex asks. It’s simple enough. Cody won’t be questioned by other troopers, but if anyone sees him take a prisoner into the armoury, and then said prisoner is reported missing, Cody will be slated for execution. 

Skywalker doesn’t have that issue, but he’s needed to distract Third Sister. Rex’s eyes flick to the general, who sits crosslegged on the floor. His helmet is strewn in front of the door, along with his glove. His mech hand is laid on his knee, and Skywalker uses a screwdriver to poke around in the wiring.

Cody shifts, and Rex’s attention is drawn back to the other clone. “Right now, you’re being held because you know the location of a Jedi. Third Sister will be sent to find out that location, and she’ll bring an electroshock machine with her.”

“I don’t think I like this plan.”

“Just listen. It’ll be a portable one, meaning she has to bring a GNK droid with her. General Skywalker will be able to modify it—” Cody says, and Rex pauses to glance at the general, “—so that you can fit inside of it.”

Rex blinks once, twice, three times. Cody is as serious as ever. He shifts his gaze to the general, who is more focused on his hand. Rex sighs, “It’s a gonk droid. How am I supposed to fit inside of it?”

“It’ll be stripped down. We already tried it out. I fit it in,” Cody says. Rex leans back. 

“Then how is it supposed to power the machine?”

“It’s not,” Skywalker says, still testing out his hand. He’d fried it again, but he refused to tell Cody and Rex how. His refusal only fuels their theorizing. Skywalker stretches his metal fingers, “It’ll create an electronic charge, but it’ll be tiny. You’ll barely feel it.”

“Alright. How am I going to get into the gonk droid?” Rex says. During the war, he’d seen his fair share of idiotic plans, but those plans are a lot different when you’re the one being broken out. 

“We’ll smuggle you a knife. Stab it into the corner of the ray shield—” Cody points to the corner of the shield, “—and it’ll go out. The droid will be modified so you can just open the top and hop in.”

Rex tries to think of the last time he’d seen a gonk droid. Portable power generators, and very useful during the war. He’d seen them attached to electroshock machines before, but he’d never been on the receiving end. Seems like there were a lot of firsts in the past few weeks.

And then there was Third Sister. Skywalker hadn’t been open about the newly-formed Imperial Inquisition, but Rex had gathered enough. Third Sister came in regularly enough to taunt him when she was bored. Tried to get him to talk about Skywalker—well, Vader. Skywalker had said she was supposed to be gone by now, but she always slipped away before he could assign her to anything else.

Still, she’s formidable. Small, weak, but smart. Power-hungry, from the way she acts around Skywalker. So she won’t let Rex, her prized catch, go easily, especially not when it would draw Skywalker’s anger.Rex rests his head on his clasped fists. Cody crouches next to the holomap. 

“How do I get Third Sister to leave? And what if she comes back?” Rex asks. If Cody is proposing the plan, then surely he’s gone through every possible scenario. He can be just as reckless as the rest of them, but he tends to think things through a bit more. Especially when it came to his own vod’e.

“General Skywalker will call her to the bridge. He’ll distract her for long-enough,” Cody says. He speaks with such an air of authority that Rex, for a moment, is tempted to simply go along with it. But he still has his doubts. 

“And you’re sure this will work?” Rex clasps his hands a bit tighter. 

“It’s the best shot we have, Rex,” Skywalker speaks up, still tapping away at his prosthetic. Rex presses his lips together for a second, and then takes a long breath. Before, in the war, if he died, there were men who could take his place. He had known that, and while it was morbid, it comforted him. If he died, his men would still be provided for. Now, if he dies, he’ll be leaving Ahsoka alone. And after his last message, she was sure to be worried. Third Sister had cracked his wristcom, so it’s not like he can call her again. 

Rex shuffles, suddenly aware of how his blacks are clinging to him. “I-I know, it’s just. . .”

“Insane?” Skywalker offers.

“Yeah.”

“Nothing we haven’t done before,” he smiles. Rex smiles back.

The general hasn’t been himself the past few weeks. Both him and Cody had known that. Pale, deep circles under his eyes, more than a few burst blood vessels in his eyes, and new cuts that seemed to show up in different places every time Rex saw him. Skywalker had all but stumbled into this meeting, and Rex swears he saw smoke rising off of his suit.

He’d shown up like that plenty of times before. After General Unduli escaped—though no one knew how she had done it—Skywalker hadn’t come to his cell. When he did, his skin was shot through with webs of red. They looked more like frost than scars, but Rex didn’t miss the way the general winced when he touched them. 

Skywalker’s comm beeps just as he tugs on his glove. He glances at it, and Rex and Cody watch him. His helmet flies into his hand, and he snaps it into place before he answers.

“Go ahead.”

“Lord Vader, the Grand Inquisitor is requesting your presence,” the slightly stuttery voice of an ensign—because what else could they be?—fills the cell.

Skywalker’s face is hidden, but his shoulders rise by just a fraction. “I will be there when I can.”

“Of course, Lord Vader,” the ensign says. There’s a pregnant pause, and then, “What shall I tell him? M-my lord.”

“Tell him to wait,” Skywalker growls. He drops his wrist. The general says something, but through the vocoder, it just sounds like a mix of random vowels. Skywalker stands up, his bones cracking as he stretches, and then settles into Darth Vader’s skin.

“Cody will fill you in on everything else. I will not be long.”

He leaves the room with a flourish of his cape, and the door shuts behind him. Rex waits a few seconds before he speaks again.

“You know, he was never very good at acting before.”

Cody smiles ruefully. “Yeah. Guess that’s one thing he didn’t pick up from General Kenobi.”

His voice trails off at the end. The month since he’d been de-chipped had been difficult, and Cody had only really started to process Kenobi’s death five months after the fact. Rex hadn’t hurt Ahsoka, but he still feels guilty for shooting at her. He can’t imagine how it is for Cody. Or Skywalker.

They’d both loved Kenobi. It took Rex all of two days to figure out that Kenobi was basically Anakin’s father (slash brother slash mentor slash too many complicated relationships to name them all), and it took him all of two months to realize how his vod felt about the general.

So their animosity is expected. Cody had killed Kenobi, and something tells Rex that Skywalker hasn’t forgiven him for that. That something is probably the choking—which Cody had told him about, obviously. And as much as Rex hates to think it, he’s not surprised. General Skywalker has always been this protective of the people he considered friends, and he’d been merciless with a lot of the Seppies they had brought in. In rare moments, Skywalker had been downright murderous. And for a Jedi, those rare moments are everything.

Rex stops pondering Skywalker and looks back at Cody, who seems rather lost in his own thoughts. He coughs, and the commander looks up at him. Rex leans forward. “Tell me about the rest of the plan.”

* * *

The fake identification Bail gave her seems to work well enough. The clone inspecting it doesn’t seem to notice anything, even though Ahsoka is definitely a wanted criminal at this point. She’s slathered her face in highly-pigmented orange paint, and Padmé helped her apply new white markings. She’d painted her lekku and montrals as well—nothing too drastic, just made the blue stripes branch out a bit more—and one of the rebels had given her facial prosthetics in order to change her cheekbones and nose.

Humans aren’t very good at identifying members of other species. Most of them rely on the obvious markings, or the colour of the skin. And on an industrial world like Eriadu, Ahsoka is sure that the clone sees plenty of Togruta coming through. 

He hands her identification back, and Ahsoka tucks it into her pack. “Have a good day, Ms. Remm. Cause no trouble.” 

Ahsoka nods. His eyes linger a bit too long on her electrobatons, but civvies are allowed to carry weapons on Eriadu. Ahsoka walks away from the booth. Behind her, lines upon lines of civilians clamour through the checkpoint.

Getting onto Eriadu was difficult enough. Aside from changing her appearance, Ahsoka had to register a civilian ship in order to get past the Star Destroyer orbiting the planet. Then, she landed in one of many designated landing pads, had to pay to dock her ship, and then spent upwards of three hours waiting in a line to get through customs and onto the actual planet.

Things were a lot easier when she had clearance as a Jedi, Ahsoka thinks. She adjusts her backpack and looks around. Eriadu is a temperate planet, with jungles to the south and a winding mountain range to the north.

Here, on the planet’s equator, it’s heavily industrialized. Long smokestacks rise into the sky, pumping out yellow smog. As she walks through the city, she sees more than a few thin, sickly civilians. 

In their message, the Jedi hadn’t left a specific location. After their rescue of Master Luminara, Ahsoka had set out to find the padawans alone. Padmé had smuggled herself onto Naboo to meet with Queen Apailana, and Obi-Wan had left to find Master Yoda.

Ahsoka is looking for the padawans. They said they had younglings with them, but weren’t able to get off of Eriadu due to the orbiting Star Destroyer.

Getting herself onto Eriadu had already been difficult. Getting off was going to be even worse. Ahsoka rubs her chin, her prosthetic chafing against her skin. It makes her look like an entirely different Togruta, but it’s uncomfortable. 

Ahsoka walks down a concrete staircase. She only has enough credits to stay for a night at a motel, and she needs somewhere quiet to meditate if she wants to find the padawans. The moon is already halfway across the sky, and if she wants to sleep at all, she’ll need to find a room quickly.

But it’s not like she can ask any locals.Most of them scurry past her, and there’s more than a few bounty hunters looking at her like they want to eat her. Ahsoka picks up her pace as she heads into the belly of the city.

Slowly, fluorescent lights take over her field of vision. Bright signs, directing her to the nearest cantina. There’s more than a bit of Imperial propaganda, and Ahsoka watches the holograms carefully for any wanted posters. 

Obi-Wan said the Inquisitor had recognized him. He’d only stayed on Dantooine for a few hours, mostly out of fear of being found. Ahsoka doesn’t blame him. Anakin and Obi-Wan had been media darlings during the war, and as Anakin’s padawan, she’d been the subject of more media attention than she wanted. But Obi-Wan had practically been the face of the Jedi Order. He’s recognizable, and now that the Empire knows he’s alive, they’re going to send Inquisitors after him.

Ahsoka knows Obi-Wan won’t let himself get caught. Not when the stakes are this high. Luke and Leia will need training, and he needs to be there to train them with her. She turns around a corner and hops over a puddle of suspiciously yellow liquid. 

There isn’t as much lighting in this area, and Ahsoka hopes that means she’s heading away from the entertainment district, and towards some kind of hotel. Sleeping on the street isn’t exactly what she had planned for this mission. 

At that thought, Ahsoka looks around for someone who looks moderately trustworthy. The vast majority of the people around her are armed, and Ahsoka is more than willing to bet that they’re criminals in one way or another.

Then again, so is she. 

Ahsoka walks up to the first person she sees without a weapon. A Devaronian, with bright red skin and stubby horns. She stops in front of him, and tilts her head up to look at him. Ahsoka deliberately plays up her age, trying to make herself seem a bit younger than she actually is. 

“Excuse me, sir,” Ahsoka says. The Devaronian glances at her with blatant disregard. Ahsoka continues anyway, “Do you know where I could find a motel?”

He stares at her for a few more seconds, narrows his eyes, and then sighs, “Down the street. First left. Giant pink sign.”

Ahsoka smiles at him, and then walks down the street. She’s not particularly tall—then again, she isn’t done growing—and in many ways, that gives her an advantage. Ahsoka is fast, she’s agile, and she’s very good at feigning innocence.

She turns left, and is greeted by a flashing pink sign. Ahsoka hurries, eager to get to the hotel. The longer she takes to find the Jedi, the more time the Empire has to hunt them. With the rise of the Inquisition, they’re in more danger than ever. First Sister had been sloppy, but the Inquisitor had proved to be a much greater challenge. Obi-Wan had dealt with him easily, but if Ahsoka runs into him, she’ll have a harder time. 

She’s an exceptional duelist—she knows that for a fact—but she doesn’t have her lightsabers. Her electrobatons are suitable, but they’re not a replacement. They’re heavier, of equal length, and, worst of all, they can be cut. The electricity can handle a plasma lightsaber, but the metal weapons themselves are exposed. One cut, and her weapon will be disabled entirely.

Ahsoka stops in front of the hotel, and pushes the door open. The receptionist is hidden behind a thick, slightly stained layer of transperisteel. They barely look up as Ahsoka approaches, but when she knocks on the transperisteel, they raise two purple eyes. 

“Welcome to the Golden Cloud. How can I help you?” they recite.

“Just a room, please.”

“For one or two?”

“One.”

Ahsoka slides a few Imperial credits across the counter, through a small slit in the transperisteel. In return, the receptionist shoves a small key back. Ahsoka smiles, and clasps the key tightly, “Thank you.”

She steps away from the desk, and glances down at the key. Room 116. First floor, then. A few turns, and then Ahsoka is there. The number is plated in gold, but it’s rusting and the second 1 sways as she unlocks the door and pushes it open.

The room is small, with a single bed and a refresher to her left. To her right, there’s a closet, but Ahsoka opens the door with her shoe, and a sour smell rises out of the closet. Looks like she won’t be using that.

Ahsoka throws her bag onto the bed, ignores the way the mattress squelched when she did, and settles onto the floor. Meditation is not an exact art. Anakin had always fiddled with machinery while he meditated, his eyes glazing over while he did. Obi-Wan had preferred to meditate outside, preferably surrounded by plants. When she asked, he’d said something about the ‘living Force’, his voice changing to imitate someone she had never met. An inside joke she’d never heard. 

Ahsoka is a healthy mixture of the two. Meditating is easier while she’s still, but she always needs to go and train afterwards. Her energy gets pent up after sitting for so long, and training helps blow off some of it. 

Now, she sits cross-legged and places her hands on her knees. A quick check with the Force for danger, and then she lets it envelop her. No matter how shielded they are, the Jedi will be giving off some kind of signature. Younglings aren’t very good at shielding, and they are always bright in the Force.

Eriadu is clouded. The taste of acid fills her mouth, and Ahsoka frowns. There are plenty of people on Eriadu, all with unique Force signatures. Velvety aristocrats, bounty hunters drenched in gold and blood, younglings who smell like spring, and parents wrapped in layers upon layers of love.

Ahsoka focuses in on the younglings. Tentatively, she reaches for them. Across such a distance, her touch is weak. Still, when she taps their mind, they recoil, and shields slam up. Simple enough to find them. 

The lights around them dim, each youngling shielding themselves after the first. There are cracks in almost every shield, but they’re obviously all trained. They shield like Jedi. 

Mentally, Ahsoka puts a pin in the signatures—however muted they are—and withdraws from them. She opens her eyes. For a few seconds, she stays cross-legged on the floor, staring at the dull grey walls.

Ahsoka sinks back into meditation, letting the Force flow through her unhindered. She grasps arounds the edges of her conscience. Anakin’s bond is cut clean, but Ahsoka still takes a moment to tug at it, and a few more moments to wait for a response. When none comes, Ahsoka drops it and moves to her bond with Obi-Wan. Not nearly as strong as the one with Anakin, but stronger than it was before.

Still whole. Ahsoka taps on it, and waits. Obi-Wan only acknowledges her, and Ahsoka sends a brief summary of the trip. Mostly through images. Eriadu, the younglings, the hotel. She gets a muddled string of feelings back.

A foggy swamp, a cramped hut, a sense of annoyance that permeates everything, and Yoda’s wrinkled little face. Ahsoka smiles to herself, and lets go of the bond. He’s found Yoda, which can’t be anything but good. From what it seems, Yoda is being Yoda. Cryptic and confusing.

Before she gets up, Ahsoka reaches out even further. Beyond Eriadu, beyond the system, beyond the sector, until her consciousness is stretched as thin as flimsi. She taps around. The Force is weak like this, and if she overextends herself, her abilities will be weak for a bit.

Still, Ahsoka searches. He has to be somewhere out here. She digs through the Force, waiting for a single stalwart presence. One that feels like gunmetal and war. He has to be somewhere out there. 

Rex had been the best of the GAR. There’s no way he’s died like this. Somewhere, he’s waiting for her to find him. Ahsoka only prays that the comm he sent her was a mistake. Maybe it had just broke while he was using it, and that’s why it had cut off like that.

Ahsoka brushes against something that feels like Rex, but it’s overshadowed by a nearby presence, one Ahsoka doesn’t dare probe.

She withdraws, and the grey wall of her hotel room greets her. Rex is alive, but seemingly not for long. Whoever he’s with, they’re Force-sensitive, and they’re almost painfully dark. Ahsoka pushes herself up, and brushes off her pants. She doubts the floor has been cleaned in the last seven rotations. 

Before she goes after the younglings, Ahsoka takes a moment to use the refresher. It’s just as tiny as the hotel room itself, and when she goes to wash her hands, the water comes out yellow. It’s barely a drip, but Ahsoka still uses some soap on her hands. 

She shakes them clean, and glances at herself in the cracked mirror. Instead of markings around her eyebrows, they’re now long triangles under her eyes. Her facial prosthetics buff out her chin a bit, and make the bridge of her nose higher. When she scrunches her face, she can feel them shift over her skin. They won’t fall off, and they’ll hide her identity, but that doesn’t make them comfortable. 

Ahsoka sighs, and turns the refresher light off behind herself. She summons her bag—frivolous use of the Force, she thinks—and then steps out of the room. Ahsoka returns the key to the receptionist, who barely looks at her, and starts to head in the direction of the younglings.

* * *

Naboo welcomes her home. Padmé has to keep her face hidden—this is the Emperor’s homeworld afterall—but the elaborate fashion favoured by her people makes that much easier. Besides, Palpatine already knows of her survival. Padmé just needs to hide her location, not her existence.

A bit of makeup, some contacts, and Padmé looks like any other Nabooian woman. Without her elaborate costumes and her white and red makeup, Padmé fits right in. On a day like this, Theed is practically buzzing with activity.

Padmé lets herself slow down. No matter how many times she’d walked these streets, she’s still not tired of them. The muted brown tones of the buildings, the green grass, the waterfalls, all of it is perfectly familiar. 

A glimpse of white plastoid armour shatters that idea, and Padmé looks down again. Without her elaborate dresses, she is much less recognizable. Still, the clones on Naboo probably have special order to find her. Palpatine had faked her death, but that doesn’t mean he’s given up on her.

Or on the twins. Padmé’s pace quickens, and her stomach curls at the thought of the children. Their ragtag band of rebels had no leader, but that role had quickly fallen to her, Obi-Wan and Ahsoka as the most experienced in the group. The three of them had all set out on their own separate missions. Ahsoka to find the Jedi padawans, Obi-Wan to search for Master Yoda, and Padmé to talk to Queen Apailana.

But that had meant leaving the twins on Dantooine, with Threepio and a hulking Mon Calamari male. Ahsoka and Obi-Wan spent a full day in meditation erecting shields around their minds, just to make sure the twins didn’t broadcast their location to the Empire. As another precaution, they had moved them into small home away from the base so that they were more subtle. Padmé had hated leaving them, and even now there’s a constant worm of worry in her stomach. But she has to get to Apailana.

It’s risky, but Naboo has always stood for democracy. Apailana will not change that. Padmé curves around a corner, keeping her hood tucked over her face. She fits in with these people, but that doesn’t matter. One mistake, and her cover will be blown. 

Thinking about that probably won’t help. Padmé needs to get to Apailana, and one of the easiest ways to do that is through Padmé’s own family. Her reign had boosted them to a place of political prominence, and the connections they made wouldn’t vanish after her ‘death’. Padmé had supported Apailana in her bid for Queen, and Padmé can only pray that her family has maintained those connections.

Padmé rounds another corner, and comes to a stop in front of her own home. Tucked into the suburbs of Theed, innocuous and simple. Nothing you would expect from the family of a Senator. 

But it is hers, and that’s all Padmé really cares about. Before she even approaches her home, she glances around the cobble street for clones, for probe droids, for anything. Surely, Palpatine is surveying her home. It’s the first place she would’ve ran.

Though, he knows that. Maybe he didn’t bother setting up surveillance. But he also knows that she knows that, so maybe he did? 

Padmé starts walking before she drags herself into a never-ending paradox. Speculating on Palpatine’s motives won’t do anything for her. Right now, she just has to get to Apailana. Yet, when Padmé raises her hand to knock on her family’s front door, all of her steel vanishes. Right now, it should only be her parents. But when she does knock on the door, they’ll recognize her. 

And what does she say then. They’d had their speculations about Anakin, about her pregnancy, but none of them voiced. Does she even bother explaining the complications to them? They’ll want to know. And then there’s the mess with Palpatine, and the Empire—

Padmé knocks three times in a measured fashion. She steps back, and clutches her hood a bit tighter around her face. Surveillance or not, she has to do this. 

The door swings open, and the thin face of her mother peeks out. Her smile is wide, but her eyes are red. She holds a towel in her hand—was Padmé interrupting something?—and she is just as warm as Padmé remembers.

There’s a brief urge to rush forward and hug her, but the rational part of her shoots down that idea before she can even consider it further. Jobal smiles politely, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Y-yes.” Padmé coughs, trying to make her voice a bit grittier than usual. The last thing she needs is her mother breaking down on the front porch. “May we talk inside?”

Jobal looks more than a little confused, but she steps aside to let Padmé in. She steps past her mother, and takes a deep breath. Five-blossom bread. Her mother has been baking. The house smells of butter, and Padmé basks in it. It reminds her of somewhere brighter, when there was nothing beyond Naboo. Just her and her family. 

Jobal comes up behind her, her steps loud, and Padmé turns as she pulls down her hood. There’s a second before Jobal registers her face, and in that second, Padmé’s heart swells to the point of bursting. 

Her mother drops the towel, and takes a shaky step forward, “Padmé?”

Padmé blinks, not caring to wipe away the tears spilling down her face, and nods. “Hi, Mom.”

Jobal rushes forward and pulls Padmé into herself. She’s barely taller than her daughter, but she presses several sloppy kisses to the crown of her head. Padmé leans into her mother. Her clothing is soft, and her mother smells like the blossoms at Varykino. 

It’s almost too much, and Padmé pulls away before she covers her mother in snot and tears. Jobal clings to her, hands cupping Padmé cheeks. Her eyes flick over her multiple times. Padmé smiles. There are a couple new wrinkles than the last time she had seen her—though that was almost nine months ago—but other than that, her mother has barely aged. 

She presses one more kiss to Padmé’s forehead, and then just stares at her. One of the hands cupping her cheek flies back, and she cuffs Padmé over the head lightly.

“Mom!” 

“Do not ‘Mom’ me, young lady! We thought you were dead!” Jobal cries, her brown eyes alight. Padmé frowns. That was a very good point. If Leia disappeared for five months and then showed up after Padmé had attended her funeral, Padmé wouldn’t let her out of her sight again. 

“Ruwee!” her mother yells. Padmé disentangles herself from her mother’s arms, and steps towards the backyard door. Her father takes pride in his garden; it only makes sense that he’s spent most of his time out there since her death.

Padmé mentally winces at that thought, but it’s shoved to the side when her father appears in the doorway. He’s covered in dirt and slightly sweaty, but she runs for him anyway. Ruwee barely processes that it’s her before Padmé has jumped him and wrapped her small arms around him.

After a few seconds, Ruwee is clinging to her. They spend a few seconds like that, rocking back and forth, and then Ruwee pushes her away. He searches her for any injuries, his eyes scanning over her entire body, and Padmé only smiles. He had always been a bit protective. The fact that he’s not yelling at her is a win. 

“Sit down, Padmé,” her mother says, before she walks back into the kitchen. Her voice is so stern that Padmé is compelled to just sit down on the floor, feeling like a teenager who got caught sneaking out. In her case, a teenager who got caught working on legislation past her curfew.

Padmé sits down at the table instead. Ruwee looks at her, absolutely beaming, before he follows her mother into the kitchen. They talk in low, hushed tones, no doubt about her. 

She doesn’t pay much attention to that. Being a politician meant enduring speculation. Mostly, she’s just focused on the table. 

It’s a stupid thing to focus on, but she has so many memories of giant family dinners, of meeting Sola’s husband, of Anakin.

He’d only visited once, before the war. When they came to Naboo, she’d insisted on stopping at her family’s house, and Anakin obliged. Anakin had seemed terribly overwhelmed at the time, and it didn’t occur to Padmé that he probably hadn’t had a proper dinner in years until later.

From what she remembered of her, Anakin’s mother had been a very loving woman. But Anakin had also admitted that most of his memories of Tatooine were sour. His meals with Obi-Wan were most likely stilted and awkward—neither of them really learned how to communicate, damn Jedi—and aside from diplomatic dinners, Anakin hadn’t ever had a family meal.

But he enjoyed it then, and her family teased her about bringing home a boyfriend. Anakin had acted nonchalant, but the tips of his ears had gone red. 

She wishes he were here now. 

Jobal flits into the room again, and sets a fresh load of five-blossom bread onto the table. Her cheeks are stretched by the massive grin on her face, and Padmé knows from experience that smiling for too long will hurt your face. She doesn’t tell her that, though. 

“We thought you were dead.” Ruwee is the first one to speak, and Padmé reaches across the table for the bread. She tears off a chunk, and takes a small bite.

“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

Jobal’s face softens, “Padmé, why didn’t you come to us? If you were in danger, we could’ve helped.”

Padmé swallows a chunk of bread. The spices dance across her tongue, and she takes another bite before she says, “It wasn’t that simple.”

“Then explain it to us,” Ruwee says.

How is she supposed to put this in a way that doesn’t immediately alarm them? 

“I’ve made some powerful enemies on Coruscant,” she starts. “Five months ago, when the war ended and the Jedi were killed, some soldiers came to try and take me away. A friend of mine helped me escape. Someone else arranged my funeral. I swear, I wasn’t trying to f-fake my death, or anything. I was off-world, and by the time I got to access the holonet, the funeral had already happened.”

Jobal’s smile drops, and she exchanges a terse glance with Padmé’s father. “How powerful.”

“Very.” Padmé chews the inside of her cheek. Her parents only nod. Padmé has to be careful. Palpatine carries the same powers as a Jedi, and if needed, he can rip any information Padmé gives her parents out of their heads. So she has to be as vague as possible.

“What about the baby?” Ruwee asks softly. Padmé is chewing when he asks, and she almost chokes. That’s going to be a lot more difficult to explain away. Especially knowing what her parents are going to ask next.

“Are they with the father?”

Padmé shakes her head, “No. The baby— _babies_ —are somewhere safe.”

“Babies?” Jobal raises an eyebrow.

“Twins. Luke and Leia.”

Padmé doesn’t need to be Force-sensitive to read their emotions. Caught between worry and joy, her parents just settle for warm smiles instead. “And they’re healthy?”

She thinks of Leia’s loud lungs, of Luke’s chubby fists. “Yes. They’re both in perfect health.”

“And the father?” Ruwee asks gruffly. Padmé smile slips off of her face. When she first announced her pregnancy, her parents had asked about the father, and she had given them a non-answer. They hadn’t pushed, not really caring about her child’s parentage, but now that Luke and Leia are real, she supposes that’s changed.

“He’s not in the picture,” Padmé stares down at the table. “He died five months ago.”

“Anakin.”

Padmé closes her eyes, and focuses on the weight of the japor snippet around her neck. She nods. Her family had liked him, hadn't they? 

Padmé doesn’t cry. She opens her eyes and straightens up. No time for tears. Those can come later. Right now, she needs to do what she came here for. They can catch up later. “I need to talk to Queen Apailana.”

Her parents look dumbfounded, but after a few seconds their eyes fill with determination. Padmé knows that look. It’s the same one she has when she holds Luke and Leia.

* * *

Ahsoka finds them in an abandoned troop transport. Their presence is clouded, but she’s sure they’re there. Troop transports were only sold to the Republic, and while some of them had been stolen and used by smugglers, the vast majority of them were in the hands of Jedi.

So it’s as good a place as any to check.

Ahsoka steps up to the door of the LAAT/i. There’s a small campsite next to it. The transport itself is covered in vines and dirt. If not for the Force, Ahsoka would’ve missed it entirely. It’s only been a few hours since she landed on Eriadu, and it’s still night.

She knocks lightly on the door, and then steps back. As a precaution, she doesn’t have her mask. As another precaution, she does have her electrobatons. 

A hand violently yanks back her montrals, and someone jams a lightsaber hilt against her neck. Ahsoka is still. Whoever is holding her, it has to be a padawan. Younglings don’t have this kind of strength. 

Normally, she’d just jam her elbow into her attacker and throw them over her, but if Ahsoka makes one wrong move, that lightsaber will go straight through her throat. 

“I’m a Jedi,” she chokes out. It’s half lie, but it’s true enough. She just hopes the Force reflects that.

A few more moments, and then they let her go. Ahsoka falls onto the ground, her face landing in the mud. She pushes herself up and flips around, leaning back on her elbows. 

She stares into a brilliant blue lightsaber, and shrinks backwards. The Jedi holding it slowly lowers the weapon, but it’s still too close to her body for comfort. The lightsaber is the only source of light in the entire jungle. Her attacker’s face is lit from underneath, and Ahsoka can’t even see their eyes. 

“A Jedi?”

“I swear.”

The lightsaber lowers, but when Ahsoka tries to get up it snaps into place again. “Where’s your lightsaber?”

“I buried them,” Ahsoka answers truthfully. “I was on a Star Destroyer during Order 66. It crashed. I buried my lightsabers in the wreckage so no one would come after me.”

There’s a tap against her shields, and Ahsoka lowers them carefully. She dregs up memories of the crèche, of training with Master Drallig, and of the crash. Her attacker sifts through them, and then their lightsaber deactivates.

They hold out a hand, and Ahsoka latches onto their forearm. They pull her up. She flicks the mud off of her face. 

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ahsoka says. Her faceprint is meant to stay on, even when exposed to water or mud. The solution she needs to take it off is in her bag, but she won’t need that until later.

“You guys can come out,” the Jedi calls. 

The door of the LAAT/i screeches open, and several bright Force signatures burst to life around her. Ahsoka turns. A few younglings stand at the door of the ship, holding lanterns. Ahsoka smiles at them. There’s not a lot of them at first, but a couple more heads pop up.

One figure pushes through the rest of them, and a skinny human boy comes hurtling towards her. He shoves his face into her midsection, and Ahsoka awkwardly pats his head. His skin is warm, and he hugs her for a moment.

“Padawan Tano?”

Ahsoka raises an eyebrow. She bends down a bit, and stares at the boy. “Petro?”

Petro grins lopsidedly. Katooni comes up behind him, her smile just as bright as his. Gungi, Byph, and Zatt all hurry over too, and Ahsoka gives each one of them a hug. “Do you guys still have your lightsabers?”

They nod, and Ahsoka pats Gungi’s shoulder appreciatively. “Good.”

After everything it took to get those lightsabers, they better not have lost them. Ahsoka regrets leaving her lightsabers behind almost everyday. The parts needed for a lightsaber aren’t that hard to find. The kyber crystal is another matter. Ilum is guarded by the Empire, and it’s not like Ahsoka has the time or credits to spend hunting down her old lightsabers.

“Padawan Tano?” A new voice asks. A boy about fourteen years old with a dark padawan braid stands in front of the rest of the younglings. His skin is light brown, and his hair is deep black.

“That’s me,” Ahsoka says, rather unenthusiastically. She’s technically not a Jedi anymore, and the circumstances surrounding her departure are still complicated. She’s not sure what the official story is, but she’s almost certain that they know she left in one way or another.

The padawan nods, and then gently motions for the younglings to go back inside the transport. He clasps a metal lantern in his hang, and it swings as he steps out of the transport and onto the ground.

He walks past her and opens the lantern. Ahsoka turns to watch him. The other padawan, the one who attacked her, watches her in turn. The younger one takes out the candle and gently holds the flame to a small bundle of sticks on the ground.

The fire bursts to life, and the young padawan settles onto one of several cut logs around the campsite. Carefully, Ahsoka follows his lead. The older one walks towards the transport, and Ahsoka is painfully aware of his presence the entire time. After Order 66, they’re right to be wary.

“I thought you left the Order,” the padawan says. Ahsoka cringes a bit, and sighs.

“I did.”

He nods. “So why did the clones attack you? If you weren’t a Jedi.”

“I was acting as one,” Ahsoka explains. “Mandalore was under the control of a former Sith Lord, Darth Maul. Their people asked me to help, and I reached out to the GAR. My master—my old master—split his legion. He gave command to one of my friends, and I went along as an advisor. We captured Maul, took Mandalore, and were heading back to Coruscant when they attacked.”

The padawan’s lip curls, and a bitter spike of anger stabs through the Force. “Did your master make it?”

Ahsoka looks down at her hands. Mud sinks into the lines of her skin, and the heat from the fire is making it dry even faster. She looks back up at the padawan. “No. He didn’t.”

“Yeah,” the padawan says, wrapping his dark robes around him. “Neither did mine.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She’s with the Force now,” he says bitterly. Ahsoka frowns. Even when she was still in the Order, she’d had issues with that part of the code. She had attachments—Anakin, Obi-Wan, Rex, Padmé—and the thought of any of them dying had made her terrified. When Obi-Wan ‘died’, she had just been angry. Not as much as Anakin, but she had spent that night staring up at her ceiling and trying not to cry. When she saw visions of Padmé dying, she had done everything she could to stop it from happening. 

And she had saw what that part of the code had done to Anakin. Everyone knew that he loved the Senator, but the argument was over how far they had gone. Ahsoka thought that Anakin hadn’t told her that he loved her, but they were involved. Rex said they were married, and Ahsoka had dismissed it. No jedi, especially one as bad at acting as her master, could hide that. Yet somehow, he had. Ahsoka tries not to think about Rex. 

The older padawan shoves a spit on top of the fire, and attaches a pot handle to it. The pot swings, full of some random meal. Soup, from the look of it. The padawan steps over Ahsoka’s legs and leans against a third log, splaying out over the surface. He looks comfortable, but his brown eyes glance around the jungle like he expects to be found at any moment.

“We got your message,” Ahsoka says. The padawans glance at each other. 

“The one we sent to Senator Organa?” the younger one says. Ahsoka nods. 

“He just said you two needed extraction.”

“What took you so long?” the older one asks. He raises a thick eyebrow, one hand playing with his dark padawan braid. His hair is close-cropped.

“We got another message, about Master Unduli. She was held on Stygeon Prime. We had to get her out first.”

The older one nods. “I see, Tano.”

“Please. Ahsoka is fine.”

He smiles, and bow his head in greeting. “I’m Samael.”

Ahsoka leans back, and looks expectantly at the younger one. He stares for a couple seconds, and falls into a bow. He smiles. “Caleb Dume.”

“Depa Billaba’s padawan?”

His face falls. “Yeah.”

Ahsoka fiddles with her fingers. The Jedi didn’t give lessons on loss. Samael leans forwards and checks on the soup. He pushes himself back up, grabs a small bag, and pulls out a wooden spoon.

“How did you guys escape Order 66?” Ahsoka says. There’s not really a lot to talk about. She’d seen Caleb a couple of times, and she’s pretty sure Samael might’ve been in the year below her at the crèche, but other than that she has nothing. 

Caleb shrugs. “I ran.”

Ahsoka nods, and Samael stirs the soup. “You said you dealt with Darth Maul. What was that like?”

“Nothing too special.”

Samael looks at her drily. “Come on. He took Mandalore. There has to be a story there.”

“My troops did most of the work. I fought Maul. I got lucky, I guess.”

“There’s no getting lucky in a fight,” Caleb says. Samael spoons out bowls of soup, and passes her one. It’s warm, and Ahsoka shivers. She didn’t realize how cold she was until now.

Caleb takes the rest of the soup to the transport, and Ahsoka takes her first sip. It’s hot, and she splutters. Samael snorts at her.

“Leave me alone. I haven’t had anything but cold ration bars for the past two weeks,” she jokes. Caleb sits back down. He chugs his soup, and wipes it off of his cheek with his sleeve. Samael keeps staring at her. “You were involved in the Temple bombing, right?”

“No,” Ahsoka snaps, instantly jumping to defend herself. Samael shrinks backwards, and Ahsoka shoves her emotions into the Force before she responds. “I was framed.”

“But you were acquitted?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“And you still left?”

“Yes.”

Samael drinks some of his soup, and Ahsoka has a spoonful of hers. It’s warm and hearty, even if it is a bit plain. 

“You were Master Skywalker’s padawan.”

Unconsciously, Ahsoka brushes again the dead bond, and tugs at it. Part of her still expects a response, but she shoves that down before she can think about it anymore. “Yes. I was.”

Samael stares into his soup. “He saved us.”

“You and Caleb?”

“No,” Samael has another slurp, and then sets his bowl to the side. “Ephraya and I were at the Temple after the Battle of Coruscant. When the clones attacked, we went to the crèche. They pinned us, but Master Skywalker killed them. He got us to a ship.”

“He’s alive?” Ahsoka leans forwards, searching Samael in the Force.

“No. I don’t think so,” Samael mutters. “We had to leave him behind.”

Oh. Ahsoka drinks down the last of her meal, and ignores the way her chest drops. For a moment, there had been a tiny kernel of hope, and to have it ripped away again felt even worse. She chooses to ignore it, and focus on something else Samael said. “Ephraya?”

“Another padawan. She came with us.”

“Is she here now?”

Samael crosses his arms. “No. When we first got to Eriadu, some clones found us. I took the younglings and ran. Ephraya. . . well. I don’t really know what happened, but I know she got shot at least once. And she wasn’t there when I came back.”

Ahsoka pokes the bottom of her wooden bowl with her spoon. This conversation had taken a turn for the worse rather quickly. But that was to be expected, given the nature of everything. She sets her bowl down.

“We need to get past that Star Destroyer. Any ideas on how to do that?”

Fake IDs won’t work for them. Ahsoka had only gotten through the blockade through sheer luck, and because her face wasn’t recognizable. But if Samael had already caused trouble on Eriadu, the Empire will be looking for him. It had been difficult enough for Bail to get one fake ID, and he hadn’t been able to do it for Obi-Wan or Padmé.

But Samael and Caleb look at each other, and then Caleb leans in closer. “How good are you at racing?”

* * *

Third Sister drags a contraption built of metal and wire behind her, and a slowly marching gonk droid follows. Rex stands up in his cell, and tries to pretend he doesn’t have a screwdriver tucked into his blacks. 

The droid beeps at him, and Third Sister kicks it. She shoves the electroshock machine to the side of the cell, and the gonk droid settles into place next to her. 

She unclips her lightsaber, “Don’t be stupid, clone. I’m under strict orders not to kill you, but maiming is still on the table.” 

“Note taken,” Rex deadpans. Third Sister clips her lightsaber back onto her belt, and the bruise still on Rex’s neck throbs. Third Sister shuts off the ray shield, and Rex’s instincts tell him to run. Nonetheless, he stays still as Third Sister slowly attaches rows of electrodes to his entire body. Once she’s done, she kicks him backwards. Prickles of pain burst through his head, like a very sudden migraine, before they disappear. A warning through the Force. Rex glares at her and Third Sister pulls the lever.

Rex yells but it’s just acting. The electricity that runs through him feels like a prolonged shock, and though it does conduct through the screwdriver and goes deep into his muscles, it’s more of a sting than actual torture.

The electricity shuts off. “Where’s the Jedi?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rex spits. Third Sister’s lightsaber snaps to life, and it’s pointed under his chin in a few seconds. 

“If I wanted lies, I’d go ask Senator Organa,” Third Sister’s voice is distorted by her mask, but Rex still registers her as a child. Twisted by the Empire.

She pulls the lever again, and Rex screams. He arches his back, hoping that his pain looks genuine. He doesn’t really remember what it’s like to be tortured, but screaming seems like a pretty obvious reaction.

A clack of claws against his mind, and images of Fives, of Jesse, of Ahsoka, are all dragged to the surface. He bites his tongue, and tries to think of anything else. Moments from his training on Kamino, him cleaning his pistols.

Third Sister tuts, and the electricity fades. Rex hyperventilates, hoping that Skywalker will call her away now. He doesn’t have to fake his fear, but the longer he stands in front of Third Sister, the less time he has to actually escape.

“You’re boring me, clone.”

“Captain,” he corrects. Third Sister makes a dismissive motion with her hand and then pulls the lever one more time. Rex screams again, trying to make it sound like he’s actually in pain. The electricity produced by the gutted gonk droid is barely enough to tickle him, much less cause him pain. Luckily for Rex, Third Sister doesn’t seem to realize that.

She stops suddenly, and speaks into her comm. Her words are low, and she tries to make the comm quieter than it is, but Rex still hears Skywalker’s deep baritone voice. Mostly to himself, he grins. Cody assured him things would be simple after this point. 

Third Sister bends down in front of him, and begins to roughly yank off the electrodes. Purposefully, Rex pants. Her face is hidden by her mask, but Rex hopes she’s sneering. 

“It’s your lucky day, clone,” she says, her voice dripping with open anger. 

“Better a clone than a tool of the Empire,” Rex barks back, watching the way her muscles tense at that. She pulls off the final electrode, and steps back to activate the ray shield away. She tosses the electrodes onto the rest of the electroshock machine, and then bends down so she’s face to face with Rex’s crumpled form.

“Is there a difference?”

Rex shoots up. Clones are nothing like the Inquisitors. They’re slaves, controlled by literal mind control chips. The Inquisitors _chose_ to join the Empire. They chose this life. The clones didn’t.

But Third Sister is gone before Rex can even really do anything. Still, he yells at the closed door. Fucking bitch. 

Rex reaches around, between his shoulder blades. The screwdriver moved a bit during the electricity, but it’s still in relatively the same place it was earlier. As he pulls it out, he scrapes his skin a bit. 

His hands are a bit shaky from the torture, but he’s still standing, so he counts that as a win. Rex kneels by the corner of the red ray shield. Skywalker had come in and poked a bit with his lightsaber (which was red now, and Rex is pretty sure that’s a bad thing). He hadn’t broken the ray shield, only weakened its metal shell. 

As he drops onto the floor, there’s a weak ‘thump’. Rex takes the screwdriver in two hands, and stabs. The metal scrunches, and he jabs again. A small hole appears, but it’s not enough. One more time, and the screwdriver shoots straight into the metal.

An electric shock spikes through his arm, and Rex drops the screwdriver immediately. It’s still stuck in the floor, and blue arcs of electricity jump on its surface. But the ray shield is down. Not taking any chances, Rex darts out of the cell. Third Sister left the electroshock machine on. He turns it off, and mentally chides her. She acted like clones are so far beneath her, and then messes up a job any shiny could do. 

The gonk droid detaches from the machine, and Rex shuts the droid off as well. Skywalker said this would work, Cody said this would work, so it has to work. Using a single pale hand, Rex taps around the top of the droid’s head. They said the panel would be exposed, and he’d be able to just hop right in. They better have not been lying.

His fingers scrape something, and the panel pops up for a second. Rex grins. Sweat mats his hair—which started growing in prison, and, as a result, is half black and half blonde—and drips onto the surface of the droid. 

The panel flies open, and Rex peers into the insides of the droid. Like Cody said, it’s hollowed out. The inside of the droid is lined with wiring, but other than that it’s practically empty. A second look at the panel shows that it’s hinged, so he doesn’t have to worry about it randomly falling off while he’s heading down the halls.

Rex steels himself, and steps into the droid. It sags under his weight, but it’s more than large enough to fit him. His ass drops down into the droid, and his knees rise up to his chest. Rex is basically folded into the droid. Spending a month in an Imperial prison means he’s lost some weight, and his knees are pointy. They jab into his ribs, and Rex takes a few minutes to adjust himself before he closes the panel on top, and shuts himself into the droid.

What had Cody said about the controls?

Two handles, one on each side of the droid for left and right. Rex runs his hands over the sides. He grasps the handles when he finds them, and tries to shift so he’s in a more comfortable position.

Fuck it. He needs to get out of here. Rex pushes the handles forwards, and the droid shuffles forwards. It rocks under his weight. Rex pushes only the left handle forward. The droid turns left, and once the exit is in view, Rex slams both handles forwards.

He can only see through a dirty brown viewport, but the white lights of the hallway light the way for him. He’d memorized the directions Cody gave him. Turn right immediately.

The gonk droid trundles along. It goes as fast as it can, and its fast is the same pace Rex drags a body at. Scratch that, he’s pretty sure he could drag it faster. 

For once, something does go right. There are no clones he has to deal with, as the isolation cells are considered too difficult to escape. Security isn’t needed. Rex winces from inside the droid. If he doesn’t die, he needs to look over a lot of GAR security protocols. Maybe he could hire someone to try and escape from various compounds, or pull off various escapes. That way, all the holes in their security would be found easily. . . 

Rex bites his lip as the droid comes up on a turbolift. He has to enter, go to the seventh level, and then it’s a complicated series of lefts and rights and lefts and lefts and rights. He doesn’t have time to think about security protocols. 

The droid stops on the turbolift, and it sways side to side as they shoot upwards. Rex tries to steady his breathing, but it’s difficult when doesn’t even have enough room to scratch his ass. It’s even more difficult when two clonetroopers step into the turbolift next to him. 

Rex takes short, silent breaths. He can’t see them, but he knows they’re there. He watched them come in. 

“Hey, gonk droid,” one of them says, and Rex bites his lip to keep from pissing himself. The inside of the droid is covered in dust and dried oil, and he doesn’t want to add anything else to that mixture. 

“Aw. Little buddy,” the other clone responds, bending down. His helmet is off, and Rex is lucky that he doesn’t recognize the face. Seems like he’s had a lot of luck lately. Will of the Force, or some shit. 

The clone leans closer, and Rex shrinks back. The viewport is stained and dusty. There is no possible way the clone can make out Rex. There is no fucking way.

“Don’t,” the first clone kicks his brother in the shin, and the second clone stumbles. He sways, and then slams into Rex. The clone swears, Rex swears, and the gonk droid beeps indignantly.

The panel on top hasn’t opened, but that’s only because the top of the droid is pressed against the wall of the turbolift. Rex’s ribs are digging into his diaphragm, and the vertebrae of his spine presses on the wiring in the droid. He bites his lip to keep from swearing, and tries his best not to move as the clone stands back up.

“Great job.”

“Oh, shut up. Let’s just go.” 

The turbolift doors open, and the troopers step out. The doors close again, and the turbolift keeps heading up. Rex shuffles, and the droid slowly rocks back and forth. The movement of the lift and his rocking makes the droid shift downwards, and the panel falls open. Rex clamours to get out, his muscles crying as he finally stands. 

But he doesn’t have any time to relish in it. Using muscles that haven’t been touched since before his capture, Rex pulls the droid back up. He definitely pulls something, but decides to ignore it for now. The turbolift keeps heading up.

Rex hops into the droid once again, and shuts the panel overhead. Somehow, this position is even worse. Rex isn’t even sitting on his bottom, he’s sitting more on his tailbone. A particularly irritating piece of metal digs into the sensitive spot between his shoulders, and he can barely see out of the viewport. 

The turbolift opens, and Rex pushes himself forward. Now, he just has to make the right sequence of turns. In theory, it’s easy.

In practice, he runs into three clones before the first turn. The droid beeps apologetically, and the clones mutter about clankers, but he makes the first right turn without getting shot, so he counts it as a win. 

Rex sticks to the wall, and tries not to draw attention to himself. Most Star Destroyers have droids wandering the halls, and as long as he can properly control the gonk droid he’ll be fine. He has to be. Under his grip, the two handles inside the droid grow sweaty. His blacks stick to his skin. Rex hasn’t been given another pair in almost a month, and the droid doesn’t have the best ventilation. 

He marches across the length of the first hallway, and turns left. As he continues through the ship, his muscles burn more and more. His bones bend more than they’re supposed to, like metal pushed too close to snapping. 

Escape isn’t supposed to be comfortable, he tells himself. Rex swerves around a squad of troopers. The droid sways, and Rex bites his lip. Blood courses through him, warming his skin. In his fingertips, his pulse beats like a war drum. 

Rex makes another left turn. This hallway is shorter, shaped like an I. There’s another turbolift straight ahead, but that’s not his destination. Once he gets to the end, Rex needs to make two right turns and then a left, and Cody will be waiting for him. 

The turbolift doors shudder open, and Rex freezes. The droid keeps going, but Rex doesn’t dare breathe, doesn’t dare think. 

Third Sister’s small frame takes up the entirety of the hallway. Troopers move to avoid her as she walks down the hallway. Rex squeezes his eyes shut, trying not too think too loudly. Her footsteps are softer than those of the clones, and Rex purposefully picks them out in the hallway. He’s so close—he can’t fail now.

She stops, and Rex cracks open an eye. The gonk droid is sagging backwards, and anyone who looked at it for too long is sure to get suspicious. Third Sister stands slightly off to the side, and Rex can only see her leg through the muddled viewport. 

The Inquisitor sways in place, and then continues walking. Even though his muscles scream, Rex stays in place until he can’t hear her anymore. Then, he pushes hard on the throttle. The gonk droid barrels forward, marching steadily towards his goal. Rex turns to the right. 

It hadn’t taken him that long to get here in a gonk droid. How long will it take Third Sister to get to his cell, tell Skywalker, and then come after him? Ahsoka told him that everyone is different in the Force, and a Force-sensitive can pick out those signatures. Stronger Force-adepts can do it quicker, with a higher range, and Rex prays to any god that Third Sister isn’t one of those Force-adepts.

Another right. Rex stays close to the wall, but the droid’s movements are a bit more erratic. Sweat greases the handles, and his shaking hands aren’t the best for driving. A left at the end of this hallway, and Rex blinks hard, trying to squeeze away the tears forming in his eyes. He will die if he fails—that’s just a fact. Third Sister has orders not to kill him, and Rex doubts she’ll violate those. Too much of a brownnoser to risk pissing off Skywalker. But the clones will shoot him. They don’t have those orders, and after years of war, very few of them will hesitate. 

(Rex has noted an overabundance of shinies, but he’s not stupid enough to underestimate a clone).

Rex stops in front of the closed armoury, and waits. Cody said he’d been waiting for him in here, but Rex isn’t sure how he’s supposed to get Cody to open the damn door. 

He drives the droid forwards, and it rams into the door. Rex pulls both handles back, and stares up at the barely-visible droid.

The door opens, and Cody’s blue-painted armour meets him. Rex storms into the armoury, and Cody closes the door. His vod pulls open the panel, and Rex sticks his hand out first. Cody grabs onto it, and pulls him out. The edges of the droid dig into his stomach as he falls out of the droid. Rex stumbles a bit when he stands. His muscles are tense, and he definitely pulled something in his neck. Rex raises his hands over his head and stretches, his bones cracking loudly. 

Cody shoves white armour at him, and Rex instinctively starts to pull it on. The 501st’s new armour isn’t as comfortable as the old trooper armour, but it’ll do. Rex stands up, and makes sure the armour fits properly. Cody tosses him a blaster.

“Did anyone see you?”

“I passed Third Sister in the hallway,” Rex says. Cody’s face is covered by the helmet, but one hand grabs Rex’s shoulder and herds him out into the hallway before Rex has his helmet on. Cody squeezes his blaster in his other hand.

“We just dropped out of hyperspace. We’re above Imperial Centre. Some of the 501st is heading down to the surface on leave. You’re coming with us.”

Rex’s helmet clicks into place. It smells new. Too sterile, too shiny. He doesn’t have time to think about it anymore than that. Cody charges ahead, and Rex follows him. The other troopers part in front of the commander, and Cody leads him down a long series of twists and turns until they stop in front of another turbolift. 

Cody shoves him into it, and then types something into the keypad inside the lift. The turbolift doors close. Cody turns to him. “No one can interrupt us. Did she notice you were gone?”

“I don’t think so. She looked at me, but then she just kept walking.”

Cody’s fingers tighten around his blaster. “The General will deal with that.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Rex nods, and turns to face the turbolift doors. His new armour is shiny and white, so Rex has to play the part of a new clone. However, that’s kind of difficult when your armour keeps digging into your skin. Rex huffs. “Do you have my old armour?”

Cody holds his blaster in the standard hold of all clones. “It’s on the transport.”

“Good,” Rex mutters.

“Yeah,” Cody says as the turbolift doors open, “I don’t like this new shit either.”

Like always, the hangar is as crowded. Clones, all wearing the new stormtrooper armour, file into large LAAT/is. Cody leads him down into the hangar, and then towards one of many LAAT/is. 

Among his vod’e, Rex fits in perfectly. For a moment, he can almost pretend he’s back in the war. While not a great time by any metric, it was better than the Empire. 

Cody steps up into a transport, and Rex follows. The LAAT/is have been modified slightly, with a railing attached to the bottom of its sides. Good idea. Troops can grab onto them if they fall instead of scrabbling on the smooth surface of the ship.

The ship’s engine roars, and it trembles to life underneath Rex’s feet. He glances at Cody, and smiles. He’s packed shoulder to shoulder with his vod’e, he’s starved and beaten and terrified, but he’s alive and he’s free.

A few gunships lift off, flying out of the magfield and down to Imperial Centre. They’re close enough to the city that the atmosphere is breathable, and the LAAT/is don’t bother shutting the doors.

Rex scans the hangar, searching for Third Sister’s black armour. No sign of her so far. Skywalker must be holding her off. One of Rex’s hands clasps his blaster, and the other holds onto a handrail on the ship’s ceiling. 

The gunship lifts off, and Rex sways. At that exact moment, Third Sister comes hurtling around the corner of the hangar. She skids around the corner. She almost falls over, but one of her hands brushes the floor and steadies her. With unnatural speed, she jumps into the hangar and books it towards the LAAT/i. Rex steps backwards. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. 

Skywalker storms after her, but he’s not fast enough. The gunship is already half out of the magfield and too high for any human to grab, but Third Sister launches herself forwards. 

She’s only a black blur as she rockets upwards, and then her hands latch onto the railings on the side of the gunship. Her masked face snaps up, and even though her simple red visor hides her eyes, Rex can feel the anger bubbling in her. 

Skywalker reaches the hangar a few seconds too late. His cape billows behind him, and he raises a hand. Third Sister’s legs are pulled back, but she doesn’t let go of the ship. The LAAT/i is dragged backwards. Whoever is piloting it, they don’t seem to realize what’s going on. 

Rex takes another step backwards, knowing he’ll blend in with the rest of the troopers. None of them move to help Third Sister, but her thin fingers still clutch the railing.

The LAAT/i pushes out of the magfield, and Skywalker is dragged forward. Third Sister snarls, her legs thrashing. Skywalker’s fingers stiffen, and the air around them drops. The nape of his neck tingles, and Rex is hit with a sudden feeling of _wrongness._

Third Sister is yanked through the air, like a mere puppet. She goes flying across the surface of the hangar, bouncing on the hard surface. She looks almost boneless, and Rex flinches. The air around them is charged, and Rex can’t help but wonder if it came from Skywalker.

He leans over the side of the gunship, where Skywalker is staring up at him. The skull-like black mask doesn’t move, but Rex thinks he sees the tiniest nod of his head. He doesn’t think about it that hard, because the LAAT/i’s doors close and it rockets out of the blue magfield. Rex glances at Cody, who is still staring at the door. He had to have felt it too. 

But Rex doesn’t have time to focus on that. He looks towards Imperial Centre. Ahsoka is waiting for him.

* * *

“For the record, I still don’t like this plan.” Ahsoka hisses, pulling her goggles down her face. Caleb, his face half hidden by a hood, waves a hand dismissively. The din of the crowd drowns out any protests she might have. Caleb steps away from her racer, and disappears into the crowd.

Ahsoka growls, and turns back to her racer.

When Samael and Caleb proposed a plan, she thought it would be a lot more dignified than this. Instead, they had decided to rely on sheer dumb luck. They’d convinced her to use her last Imperial Credits to buy a podracer— not even a good one at that—and sign up for Eriadu’s White Wampa race. As Ania Remm, the name on her fake ID. 

If she wins, they get enough credits to buy a corvette and run the blockade. If she wins, her face is going to be recognizable all over Eriadu, and the Empire is going to notice her. Ahsoka had asked if they could just steal a corvette, like the sensible person she is, but they told her that would just draw the Empire’s attention.

Ahsoka adjusts her hands on her podracer and checks the controls. It’s similar enough to a starfighter, just a little bit more rickety. Anakin had told her about pod racing before. Fast, dangerous, and virtually impossible for a human to compete in. You need fast reflexes, and Ahsoka isn’t sure if years of war have given her the reflexes she needs to race.

But she’s already here, and pulling out of the race will just make her look bad.

The track is simple enough. They went over it before. A couple of roads in Eriadu’s underworld, a jump between buildings, and a path below the ocean. Nothing too difficult. 

But the bright lights of the Eriadu underworld are near blinding, and Ahsoka will be lucky if she makes it out without dying. And after surviving a war and two Sith Lords, Ahsoka does not want to go out in a fucking pod-racing accident.

The announcer’s voice fills the lane, but Ahsoka isn’t paying attention to that. She glances around at the competition, who are all small sentients. Dugs, Bothans, nothing close to her size. Their racers are polished, with bright paint and blinding colours. Ahsoka’s modified her podracer, but she didn’t bother painting it. It wasn’t like she had credits to waste. They bought it off of a mechanic for an exorbitant amount, and she regretted the purchase almost immediately.

The announcer continues, and Ahsoka rolls her shoulders back. This is fine. She can do this.

A loud shot signals the start of the race, and Ahsoka presses down on the gas. The podracer rockets forwards, and Ahsoka is flattened to her seat. Her skin is pressed back, and her goggles make the passing cityscape a blur of colours and buildings.

She slows a bit, and sits back up. Ahsoka hurtles forwards, sticking close to the other racers. One of them has already spun out, and she huffs. Her racer shakes, and it makes the landscape around her blurry. 

Ahsoka presses her racer further, and weaves between the bright pink racer next to her to take up their spot. A couple of swears in Huttese follow her, but she doesn’t care. The track slopes downwards, and she takes advantage of that to push the racer even harder.

She rises out of her seat as the pod rockets down the rain-slick track. Cheering crowds line the sides, and Ahsoka leans forwards. She’s in second last, and she can’t afford to fail. Ahsoka pushes forwards, and her racer hums in warning. It shakes, but Ahsoka ignores it for now. 

With a sharp turn, Ahsoka takes up the spot of another racer, this time in bright yellow. She weaves between them, using the Force to push them off-balance. The Jedi would call her actions blasphemous, but Ahsoka doesn’t think the Force minds. And as long as no one sees her do it, she’s fine.

The track curves in front of her, and Ahsoka pulls her speeder up. It shudders, and Ahsoka slams on the brakes. The pod turns, and Ahsoka is seconds away from falling out of the racer when she stops a few inches from the wall. 

Ahsoka wipes the sweat from her forehead and slams on the gas, only to have her pod let out a low whine. 

“C’mon!” she yells, slamming the hull of the racer. She glances back at the engines, which are typically connected with power couplings emitting plasma, and her racer is no different. 

Except this time, the engines aren’t connected. Ahsoka screams in frustration and scrambles out of her seat. She has to be in dead last by now, meaning she wasted her credits, Samael and Caleb and the younglings are still stuck, and Obi-Wan is going to murder her. Carefully, she stepsonto one of the two cables connecting her engines to her racer.

It’s like walking on a tightrope, except without all of the excitement. A few times, she almost slips on the rain-slick surface, but she makes it to the engine within a couple of seconds. In podracing, that’s an eternity.

Ahsoka growls and slams a hand on the power couplings, which shudder back to life. It’ll take her too long to get back to the control, and she’ll lose so much time. . .

The engines start, and Ahsoka holds down the pedal with the Force. She disguises the motion by pretending she’s balancing, and her hands just happen to be splayed. As quickly as she can, Ahsoka hurries down the cables. The podracer shakes, and Ahsoka sways with it. The cables bend under her weight, and if she stands in one place for too long she’s sure the cable will snap. 

Her podracer races into the open city, and Ahsoka catches a glimpse of the pink racer she passed before. The pod bellows, and Ahsoka goes falling to the left. One of her hands grabs onto the other cable, the other channeling the Force. Its power flows through her, but that’s not her main concern.

Dark concrete flicks by just under her nose, and if she was even a few centimetres closer her nose would’ve been torn off. Ahsoka doesn’t dare breathe out of fear. The podracer continues, and Ahsoka lays between the two cables of her podracer.

When she gets out of this, she needs to throttle Caleb and Samael for suggesting it. 

Ahsoka hooks her ankles around the first cable, and drags it closer to the second one. When she can, she uses her hand to push herself up. Her other keeps balance, and keeps the pedal pushed down. 

Her strength is draining, fast, and Ahsoka needs to get back to the controls. She’s effectively planking between the cables, and her muscles are trembling from the effort. With her one arm, Ahsoka bounces the cable. She goes up and down, the cable getting dangerously close to the dark concrete at several points, and then she pushes herself up.

The sudden change from laying to standing makes the world swirl, and Ahsoka almost falls back off of the cable. She keeps her hands out to the side, and almost runs the remaining length of the cable.

She settles into the seat, and lets go of the Force. The sudden withdrawal makes her muscles curl, and it seems likes she’s flying blind until Ahsoka slams on the gas with renewed fervour. Failure isn’t an option.

They’re coming up on the first jump, and it’s the only opportunity she has to gain on her opponents. She can just barely see the pink engines of the pod in front of her, who was slow to begin with. 

Gravity pushes her backwards as the trail slopes, and Ahsoka presses hard on the gas. The power couplings won’t break again—she won’t allow it. Cheering fills her ears, and Ahsoka lets it fuel her. 

She catches some air, and her lekku flutter backwards. Ahsoka whoops, her heart singing in her chest. Adrenaline makes her movements shaky, but it destroys her fear and right now that’s what she needs.

With more than a little help from the Force, Ahsoka keeps her speeder in the air longer. She flies over the heads of one, two, three, four racers, and lands. She softens the landing, but it still wracks her racer. Now, there are only three people in front of her. That’s better than her odds before.

The Force screams, and Ahsoka ducks. A thick blaster bolt singes her montrals, causing her to hiss in pain. The bolt hits the second podracer, and the third one crashes into the flaming wreckage of the second pod. Ahsoka swerves around them, the engines skidding behind her, and glances back. A dug, seemingly using its foot to fire a blaster, scowls at her, and Ahsoka settles deeper into her cockpit.

She’s spent her whole life dodging blaster bullets. This will be easy. Though, the rip of the wind against her singed montral does make sensing things with it a little harder. Doesn’t matter. She has the Force.

Another bolt, and Ahsoka drops backwards just as it’s fired. It hits the first place racer, and Ahsoka grins. This dug might do all the work for her. She glances further backwards, and sees only the dug and its bright green racer. It took out all the competition for her. _How nice,_ she thinks. 

The track swoops down. Above her, a thick layer of transperisteel holds back the pressure of the ocean. Ahsoka glances at the transperisteel, glances at the dug’s gun, and smiles.

They curve around. They’re close to the finishing line, and there’s only one more jump before that. If Ahsoka plays this right, she can get rid of the dug without doing anything to it.

(She almost feels bad for killing an innocent life, and then remembers how it killed the rest of the podracers. It’s not even close to innocent).

It fires again, and just before the shot leaves the barrel, Ahsoka lifts two fingers off of the controls and nudges it a bit to the right. The shot slams into the transperisteel, and the dug squawks. Ahsoka presses harder on the controls. Around her, the transperisteel groans. Cracks spiderweb their way across the surface. Ahsoka turns around a corner, and the bright lights of the city stare back. She pushes even harder, ignoring the way the podracer groans. Being slow right now will kill her.

The transperisteel moans, and then breaks. In a hail of shards, it comes down overtop of them. Water spills over the track, and the dug’s screams turn into gurgled cries. Water laps beneath her feet, and Ahsoka hurtles out of the underwater tunnel. A wave follows her, but the trail slopes up one last time. She follows it, ignoring her shaking podracer, and goes over the last jump.

The water doesn’t follow her, but she glances back to look at the collapsing tunnel. The ocean slowly falls to fill the space where the tunnel once sat. Its surface looks like the skin of a writhing beast. But the water does not follow her up the slope.

Ahsoka falls, and her pod racing hits the ground hard. She’s back where she started, and she’s the only one. She goes flying out of her racer, which is now mostly crumpled. She lays on the cool ground for a moment, the rain-slick surface cooling her overheated body, and pants.

Caleb comes whooping out of the stands, and grabs her. He pulls her up, and screams. His hood still covers his face, but Ahsoka doubts anyone is paying attention to him. The crowd is going absolutely wild. Some people are throwing their wallets on the ground—most likely after losing a bet—while others are almost rioting. The largest faction of them, however, are chanting and cheering her name.

“ANIA! ANIA! ANIA!”

Well, her fake name anyways. Ahsoka glances at Caleb, whose face is almost entirely red. His jubilation rips through the Force. Ahsoka laughs, adrenaline still kicking through her system. They could buy that corvette now, and then she could see Padmé and Obi-Wan and the twins again. She grins at him. “How’s that for podracing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ill update these notes later i have a violin lesson (online) in like eighteen minutes
> 
> next update should be out in like three days?? ish?? it's about as long as this one, and if it gets any longer i have to split it into two chapters. sorry this one took so long, it's a behemoth of a chapter because i need characters to get places and doing it this way is the best way possible, even if it does kinda suck
> 
> POSTED 24/06/2020


	12. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin attends a meeting, while Rex and Cody look for Rex's ship. Ahsoka, Caleb, Samael, and the younglings run the blockade around Eriadu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am very sad to announce that the relationship between cody and obi-wan is going to remain fairly platonic in this fic (though it's entirely possible to read it as romantic if you want). rip to my fellow codywan shippers.  
> and yeah, i KNOW rex dyes his hair blonde, but goddamnit if i can have alive padmé, i can have naturally blonde rex.

By this point, he’s spent so much time around Sidious that he’s forgotten how it feels to be in control. 

When Anakin steps into the briefing room, everyone looks to him. None of them are obsequious enough to get up and bow—and Anakin wouldn’t want them to— but their posture goes from relaxed to perfect in the span of a few seconds. He doesn’t recognize the vast majority of them, but the ones he does recognize are leading figures in the Empire. Bureaucrats who entered the military for little more than power.

Slowly, he takes his place at the head of the table. Across from him stands one Wilhuff Tarkin. He’s met him before—during the Citadel rescue, during Ahsoka’s trial—but Tarkin has earned a few promotions since then.

It’s not like Anakin has kept track. His authority within the Empire is second only to Sidious’, which is a fact he’s come to despise. Nonetheless, it gives him some fractional amount of power. Especially over Imperial officers. They might not know his official role, but after one look, they know not to fuck with him. It’s one of the only benefits of the suit.

Anakin sits in the hard chair, his eyes flicking around to numerous officers. They don’t look at him, but the Force gives away everything. They’re an equal mix of scared and confused, and the only one who seems to keep his composure is Tarkin.

“Shall we begin?” he asks, in a clipped Coruscanti accent. Anakin nods, and Tarkin smiles tightly. 

Every word that comes out of his mouth after that is unbelievably boring. So much so that Anakin leans back a bit in his seat, and waits for Tarkin to say something interesting. When he received the invitation to the briefing, there was a subject listed, but Anakin hadn’t looked at it. 

He’d had better things to do. After Third Sister’s failure to capture Rex, he’d sent her back to the Inquisitorius for them to deal with her. If they had any sense, they'd ship her off to the Outer Rim so she could spend the rest of her days chasing phantom jedi. Honestly, he was just glad to have her off the _Devastator._ Her capture of Rex meant that he was officially her prisoner, so she’d had some excuse to follow him around. Once he’d escaped, Anakin was able to boot her off his ship and finally get some peace. 

Though, Cody and Rex’s departure meant that he was alone again, with the exception of Ahsoka. She didn’t really count though, because she’s currently somewhere in the galaxy doing something. Maybe having Third Sister around to annoy him could at least give him something to bitch about when Cody got back. 

The clone went with Rex to find his ship, and make sure Rex didn’t get killed in Coruscant. That being said, Rex had left his ship in a notoriously sketchy part of the planet, so there isn’t any telling how long it’ll be before Cody gets back. And it's not like Cody and Anakin have the best relationship either. Anakin is pretty sure Cody is still mad about the whole choking thing, which, in all honesty, is fair. 

Tarkin rolls an ‘r’ in a particularly annoying way, and Anakin rolls his eyes. How had he stood the man during the Citadel rescue? It’s entirely possible that the situation with Ahsoka had left a bad taste in his mouth when it came to Tarkin, but it’s also possible that Tarkin is just a terrible, annoying human being.

Anakin settles on the latter.

“I will head the next stage of the weapon’s development, along with Orson Krennic—” Tarkin motions to a sour-faced man sitting nearby, “—who will ensure its continuing security and its mode of operation.”

The weapon. Anakin can’t say he’s heard of that before. Despite the several mind-numbing features of Tarkin’s voice, Anakin listens a bit closer.

“We will need to field additional resources to begin development. Under the best circumstances, it will not be functional for a few years. However, a degree of operation can be accessed within a half year,” Tarkin continues. He taps his datapad, and the holoprojector in the middle of the table—which Anakin hadn’t noticed before—lights up. 

The lights dim, and a large projection pops up. At first, it looks like a small moon. Then, as it rotates, Anakin spots a large satellite dish on the side of the moon. So this is the weapon. 

He leans forward. Maybe he should’ve read the subject of this briefing sooner. 

“The DS-1 orbital battle station, more aptly called the Death Star, will, upon completion, be able to destroy entire planets, and put down insurrections easily.”

There’s a ripple of shock through the Force, but Anakin is begrudgingly impressed. A weapon of that caliber will be more than enough to destroy rebellions before they even begin. An open testament to the Empire’s strength. A huge problem for Anakin.

He tilts his head. “Is that it, Tarkin?”

Everyone snaps to face him, and Tarkin curls his lip almost imperceptibly. His face melts into a saccharine smile. “Not at all, Lord Vader.”

He spits Anakin’s title like it’s a disease.

“Completion of the Death Star’s first phase occurred only a few months earlier, and the next stage sees its full construction. By the end of the second stage, the station will be able to destroywhole cities. When it is complete, it will be capable of full-scale planetary decimation.”

Tarkin says the words with such a proud tone that Anakin is half-tempted to choke him. He doesn’t, but Force, how he wishes he could. This Death Star is going to be a mechanical wonder. If the Republic had it, Anakin is sure the war would’ve ended on Geonosis. 

Still, it’s dangerous. He’ll have to work around the Death Star if he ever wants to kill Sidious (he imagines the way his body will crumple, imagines the way his half-there bond with Sidious will snap, and imagines what it’ll be like to finally avenge Padmé and their child). 

But it’s not like that threat is coming anytime soon. From the slightly bewildered looks of the Imperial Officers, the Death Star is little more than a pet project, not the behemoth of a weapon Anakin originally thought.

Still, he indulges Tarkin. “How long will this take to complete?”

“It’s not quite clear, my lord,” Tarkin says. Anakin raises an eyebrow, though he is fully aware that no one else can see him do so.

“You don’t even have an estimate?”

Tarkin opens his mouth, but then presses his lips together and re-organizes his statement. “The second stage is expected to be completed within a few months time, but the third stage, being wholly dependent on the second, is unclear.”

Anakin leans backwards. It’s going to be a pain in his ass, but if he can gain control of the Death Star. . .

“Is there any research to back up this project?” another Imperial officer says. No one else reacts, but Anakin can tell that they all agree with the general sentiment. It’s a delusional idea, and surprisingly out of character for a man as well put-together as Tarkin.

“The Emperor has approved research into using kyber crystals to power the weapon.”

“Kyber crystals?” the same Imperial officer asks. Tarkin nods, touches something on his datapad without looking at it, and the holoprojector flips. Ilum. 

“Yes. Kyber crystals were once used to power a Jedi’s lightsaber. They refused to share where they found them with the Republic, but the Empire has recovered the location of the planet.”

The part of him that still respects Jedi traditions is appalled. It recoils from the thought of desecrating Ilum, the sacred planet, where all younglings found their crystals. The other part of him—the much larger part—is intrigued. Kyber crystals are a great source of power, yes, but they’re also notoriously difficult to work with. If Tarkin’s scientists can somehow pull it off, then they’re formidable opponents. 

Besides, Anakin never cared much for the Jedi.

“How much will this even cost?” says a different Imperial. Questions fly at Tarkin, all coming from different officers with different agendas. The room explodes into sound.

“What about the money for the clonetroopers?”

“And the new Star Destroyers?”

“The idea is preposte—”

“—never work—”

“—idealistic—”

“Enough,” Anakin stands up. He doesn’t need to suffer through anymore Imperial squabbling. He stares down the long length of the table, peering through the blue hologram to look Tarkin in the eye. The man swallows, and while he is the picture of composure, his fear is evident through the Force.

“You said the Emperor approved your research.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then you will continue your work,” Anakin stares around at the rest of the officers, searching for any hint of anger or betrayal. There’s a part of him that itches to make an example of one of the officers. After all, they would be some of his biggest obstacles in killing Sidious.

If he had it his way, he’d simply go ahead and kill the bastard today. But he knew what happened to planets without governments, and he didn’t want that to happen to the galaxy. The Hutts would most likely use it as an opportunity to expand, and that was the worst-case scenario. Anakin would rather have Separatist scum take over than slavers.

But that’s beside the point.

Tarkin bows lightly, and the lights in the room go back up. “That’s all, officers.”

“You are dismissed,” Anakin raises a hand, and most of the officers relax again. He takes the moment to study Tarkin a bit closer. He’s barely changed since the last time Anakin saw him—same annoyingly sunken face, high cheekbones, and pompous accent—but this time, it might be for the better. Tarkin is like Third Sister. He’s trying to climb the chain of command, and he’s already succeeded in getting to a position of influence. While Anakin’s official role in the Empire is unclear, most officers have realized by now that Anakin (Darth Vader, rather) is in the Emperor’s good graces, and is second only to him. And while that’s great for Anakin, it’s an opportunity for Tarkin. One Anakin plans to exploit.

Anakin brushes out of the room, heading out into the halls of Tarkin’s Star Destroyer. Imperials file out after him, but he waits for Tarkin. The slightly shorter man walks out of the room after everyone else, and he doesn’t seem to notice Anakin’s dark shadow hanging over the hall.

He clutches the same datapad he used for the presentation, but he looks straight ahead. Before he can get too far away, Anakin says, “I think your. . . _Death Star_ will be a worthy asset for the Empire.”

Tarkin pauses, and turns. Shrewdly, he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Will all due respects, Lord Vader, the Death Star is not my creation.”

“But you’re overseeing it,” Anakin stalks forward. Tarkin nods.

“For the time being,” he says, his eyes flicking over Anakin. He doesn’t miss the way Tarkin’s eyes linger on his lightsaber. “Krennic has his eyes on it.”

“You’ve discussed this project with the Emperor?”

“At length.”

“And he approves?”

“From what I’ve seen, yes,” Tarkin keeps a perfect sabacc-face, but his pride makes him glow in the Force. Internally, Anakin scowls. What had Padmé called people like him? Sycophants?

“You’re. . . close with the Emperor?” Tarkin asks, tilting his head in a manner than can only be described as curious. It might be his paranoia, or it might just be Tarkin being Tarkin, but Anakin can see something predatory in his stare. 

He’d almost underestimated the man. His official role in the hierarchy is still hazy at best, so of course Tarkin would try to figure it out. Anakin narrows his eyes. He won’t be outplayed. Dealing with social intricacies isn’t his strong suit, no matter how much Obi-Wan had tried to teach him, but he’s going to have to learn. This is as good a time as any.

Anakin lowers his shields, letting some of his power leak through the air. Tarkin isn’t Force-sensitives, but it doesn’t mean he’s blind to the Force. Those who aren’t Force-sensitive can still feel it, though they often don’t know they’re sensing the Force.

Tarkin shivers, and Anakin says, “The Emperor has been a friend of mine for as long as I can remember.”

It’s technically the truth, no matter how much it hurts. Tarkin smiles, but his eyes are wide. “I see.”

Once again, Tarkin’s eyes drift to the lightsaber. His expression dims. “If I may ask a question, Lord Vader?”

Anakin nods.

“Is that a lightsaber?”

“Yes.”

Tarkin’s eyebrows furrow, and his forehead wrinkles. “I thought that was a Jedi’s weapon.”

“It was,” Anakin says. “Once.”

Anakin decides to chalk Tarkin’s interest in his weapon up to simple curiosity. “Good luck with the Death Star. It’ll serve the Empire well.”

He walks away from Tarkin before the man can say anything more. Yes, they had met before, but they were allies then. Now, they were effectively two different pieces on a dejarik board, sizing each other up. Potential allies, potential enemies. 

Even if Tarkin is able to outplay him politically, Anakin will be able to outplay him in every other aspect. Sidious has been nothing but cruel to him (his newest scars burn at the thought) but Anakin knows his place. Sidious spent years cycling through apprentices, and Anakin is close to one hundred percent sure that Anakin is the final one. He’s powerful, more so than Maul or Dooku ever were, and Sidious wouldn’t bother creating a relationship with him unless it served him in some way. If worse comes to worse, Sidious will back him. Imperial officers are replaceable. Apprentices as powerful as he is are not. 

He wonders what anyone else would do in this situation. Ahsoka would certainly be doing better than him. She’d probably have the backing of the entire army at this point, just because she was Ahsoka, for Force’s sake. Obi-Wan would’ve outmanoeuvred Sidious in twelve different ways, and have more than a few well prepared barbs. And Padmé wouldn’t even be in this situation.

Anakin brushes the edges of his consciousness, gently poking at the severed bond between him and Ahsoka. She was alive—Rex had told him that much—but it was still as broken as ever, and he hadn’t been able to meditate properly since before Order 66. Probably earlier, if he’s being honest.

He shakes that off, but part of him still taps at that bond as he walks down the length of the hallway. 

* * *

Civilians give him and Cody a wide berth as they head through Coruscant. Rex can’t tell if it’s because of the new armour, or because the attitude towards clones has changed. Either way, it makes it significantly easier to get back to the _Prophet_.

Which is gone when both he and Cody get there. Because apparently, the Force really, really, really hates him. The place where it once sat is instead filled with mere scrap, and a few burnt black marks.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he groans, kicking at the scrap metal.

“How long has it been here?” Cody asks, adjusting his hold on the bag containing all of Rex’s old armour. Rex shrugs.

“I don’t know? A month and a half?”

“You left a ship on Imperial Centre for a month and a half, didn’t pay for security, and you’re surprised when it gets looted.”

Rex shoots him his best glare, fully aware that Cody can’t see him with his bucket on. “Yes.”

His brother shakes his head slightly, and jerks his chin towards one of many nearby alleys. He starts walking, and Rex follows behind him. The clone sets his shoulders back, holds his gun tight, and pretends he isn’t a wanted criminal. Cody leads him into the alley, glancing backwards the whole time.

The bag he was carrying hits the ground with a dull thump, and Cody pulls out a thin holoprojector. Calling Skywalker is probably not the smartest thing to do, especially if they want to maintain Skywalker's cover, but there’s not a lot of options here.

Back on the _Devastator_ , Rex had proposed the idea of sneaking away with an Imperial ship, but both Cody and the general shot that down. Imperial ships are closely guarded, and if he took one, there’s a high likelihood that he’d be tracked to wherever the base is.

Another thing. Neither of them know where the base is. Cody flicks through comm channels, and Rex stares at his brother, feeling slightly guilty. He’d tried to tell them where it was, because he knew how much Ahsoka meant to Skywalker, and how much he meant to her, but Skywalker had refused. Muttered something about it being dangerous, and something about the Force. 

He hadn’t really paid attention to it. At one point or another, all Jedi talked about the Force. Unfortunately, their explanations seemed to rely on being Force-sensitive to understand them. The boundaries of the Force are still undefined, though Rex has seen more than a few Jedi throw things around with it. Including clones.

Cody finds the right comm channel, and glances out of the alley. After a few seconds, Skywalker’s tall form flickers up, all sharp lines and harsh edges. They have to be careful. Skywalker’s mechanical genius has given them one of the most secure comm lines possible, but it never hurts to be careful.

“This better be an emergency,” he grumbles.

“The ship got stolen,” Cody whispers. Skywalker is silent.

“I take it back,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you mean by stolen?”

“He means it’s been gutted, sir.”

“Trooper, I told you, you don’t have to do that anymore.”

“I know, sir,” Rex smiles half-heartedly, but he’s mostly focused on the missing ship. Both Ahsoka and Wolffe are perfectly capable of defending themselves, but Rex still wants to be there. They’re both fellow soldiers, and he’d fought side by side with both of them. Staying on Imperial Centre while they fight the Empire on Dantooine feels like a cop-out.

“Could you field the credits for us to get a new one?”

“Not easily,” Skywalker grumbles. “I’ve been sent to Kashyyyk. And it’s not like I can buy a random freighter without it raising any alarms. . .”

Rex glances at Cody, who is staring straight back at him. It’s a damn freighter. While they both know that the bureaucratic side of the army is fastidious, they doubt anyone will be checking Skywalker’s purchases that closely.

“Sir, I don’t think anyone is checking your purchases,” Cody says, speaking softly. 

“You don’t know Sidious,” Skywalker snaps. Cody flinches, so subtly that the hologram won’t even pick it up. Rex’s eyes soften. 

Cody doesn’t talk about everything very often, but Rex notices the way he stares at his blaster, the way he’s jumpy around Skywalker, the way he rubs the new scar on his temple when he thinks no one will notice.

Rex hadn’t even killed Ahsoka, but he still feels guilty about it. She’s one of his best friends, another vod even if she’s not a clone. Even just trying to kill her left him shaking, and Rex knows Cody is going through ten times worse. They don’t talk about it, mostly because Cody won’t let himself think about it, but Rex hasn’t ignored the changes he’d seen.

“You’ll have to stay on Imperial Centre for the time being,” Skywalker says. On instinct, Rex frowns. Staying in the heart of the Empire while being a known criminal and rebel isn’t exactly ideal.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, sir,” Rex says. 

“You’ll be fine. You’re a clone.”

Skywalker jumps slightly, and raises his wrist. He speaks into his comm, words too muted for the holorecorder to pick up. After a few seconds, he looks back up. “We’re landing on Kashyyyk. I trust you two will be able to deal with everything?”

He doesn’t give them time to respond before the hologram shuts off, and both Rex and Cody are left in a dimly lit alleyway. Rex sighs. “That was quick.”

“Yeah,” Cody mutters, relief filling his voice. Rex frowns, grateful Cody can’t see him. Maybe the situation between Cody and Skywalker is worse than he thought.

“Well, we _are_ officially on leave,” Rex says, letting his voice trail off at the end. 

“What are you suggesting?”

“79’s is still open, right?” Rex says playfully. Cody is still, and then he snorts loudly. 

“And how are we supposed to even get there?”

Rex straightens up, stretching as he does so. Cody grabs Rex’s bag off of the ground, and tosses it to him lightly. Rex adjusts the straps in his hand, and smiles. “Last time I checked, we both have working legs.”

Rex leads him out of the alley. Cody deserves a drink. Especially after all the shit he’s dealt with in the past few months. 79’s will be good for him. 

Though, there is the slight issue of Rex’s hair. He dyed it black when he came to Imperial Centre, but during his stint in prison, it’s grown out to his natural blonde. Then again, clones dying their hair wasn’t unheard of. He’d just dye it in the bathroom of 79’s like any other clone.

Rex is just lucky he doesn’t have any identifying traits. Other than his blonde hair, he looks like every other shiny. Fives, Jesse, and Cody all had scars or tattoos to broadcast their identity. Rex doesn’t.

“Are you sure going to 79’s is a good idea?” Cody asks, following Rex as he heads out of the alley. He clutches his blaster in his hands. Officially, they’re on leave, but no self-respecting clone leaves his blaster behind. 

Rex shrugs halfheartedly. As they head through the underworld, civvies move out of the way. They always had, but now there’s a strange air of fear around them. Rex sighs, and adjusts his grip on his back. It has everything he had on him when he was arrested, which, luckily, includes his hair dye.

“It’ll be fine, Cody,” Rex says, casting a glance backwards to his brother. When he parked the _Prophet,_ he made sure to park near 79’s. Now, all they have to do is hop on a turbolift, walk a bit, and then they’ll be there.

“You’re sure about this?” Cody asks, though he says it as more of a statement. Rex looks back at him and nods. 

They’re trapped on Imperial Centre until Skywalker can get back, and, knowing the general, that could be anywhere from a few days to a few months. While they’re here, they might as well do some good. 

Rex steps up into the turbolift, his bag of armour brushing against his leg as he does. Cody shuffles in behind him, and the doors close. No civvies join them. 

It’s a few levels before they get to 79’s, and the turbolift is remarkably slow. Rex watches Cody. Normally, his eyes would be hidden by the thick black visor, but the clear tube the turbolift is travelling up allows the lights of the underworld to shine through. A galaxy of colours reflects in Cody’s helmet, and the bright light lets Rex see Cody’s tired eyes.

He bites the side of his cheek. Cody won’t want to talk about this, not now. But he’s hurting, and he’s hurting now. Rex looks away from his vod, out of the turbolift, and then—

“It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

Rex’s gaze flicks back to Cody. His brother’s eyes flutter shut, and his grip on his blaster tightens. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“I know. But you need to know that it wasn’t your fault, Cody,” Rex turns his body to face Cody, who doesn’t even look at him. He carries so much guilt, and Rex wishes he could just take it for him. He was a loyal soldier, a good commander, and one of Kenobi’s closest friends. He hadn’t been himself when he did it, and it’s not fair that he keeps blaming himself.

“Rex,” Cody warns, his voice slipping out in a low whisper.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Then whose was it?” Cody snaps, words booming around the turbolift. 

“Palpatine’s,” Rex says. Cody has to know that it isn’t his fault, that he hadn’t wanted to kill Obi-Wan, that he was a _good man_.

“I received the order, I commanded my men to shoot, I was the one who killed him!” Cody yells, turning to face Rex. 

“You weren’t in control!”

“It’s still my fault!” Cody screams.

The doors slide open, and before Rex can say anything else, Cody shoves past him and towards 79’s. The civvies waiting for the turbolift stare at him, and Rex just shakes his head and tries to run after Cody before he loses track of him. The commander’s new armour makes it much easier to identify him in the hordes of clones. 

Rex pushes his way through the crowd, heading towards the flashing lights of 79’s. He shouldn’t have said that, but it’s not like he could just let Cody take the guilt for something that just wasn’t his fault. He’d ordered it, yes, but he wasn’t in control. It was all Palpatine. He needs to make him understand that, but sometime Cody can be difficult. So can Rex—he doesn’t fault him for that. 

Neither of them are very good at emotional regulation, no clones are (something about being trained for nothing but war), but Rex is willing to try. 

The bright lights of 79’s are almost blinding, and Rex staggers back a bit. Force. A month in an Imperial prison, and suddenly he couldn’t handle almost anything. Rex is all too aware of the ways in which his bones jut out, the way he can barely handle standing for more than thirty minutes at a time. He doubts he’ll be able to handle liquor, either. 

Whatever. That’s not why he’s here. 

Rex pulls up his bag so that it’s leaning on his shoulder, and scans the bar for Cody. Whether he wants to or not, he always stands out. Most clones do, in their own ways, but Cody exudes an air of confidence and self-assurance that distinguishes him even from Jedi. 

It’s the scar that gives him away. Rex moves towards the other clone, who is currently knocking back a full glass of amber liquid. Rex scowls, and heads around the bar. He has to move through a mass of sweaty bodies to get there, and he squeezes a bit to pass behind the backs of other clones.

Rex drops his bag next to Cody’s stool, and plops down next to him. Cody sighs, and takes another long drink, and he shouts to be heard over the roar of the cantina patrons. “Say anything, and I am going to get up and leave.”

Rex holds his hands up defensively. Cody’s lip is pulled up a bit in anger, something so subtle that Rex almost doesn’t notice it. He’s too stiff, too forceful, too angry. 

Rex nudges his bag closer to Cody’s stool, and places one hand on the bar. He pulls off his bucket and sets it down on the counter, earning him a pointed look from the droid tending the bar. Still, Rex just smiles. “Water.”

Drinking anything else is probably ill-advised at this point. As soon as they got off the troop transport, Cody had given him bottles upon bottles of water, but after a month of almost nothing, Rex had been parched. Third Sister, little cunt she was, had only ever kicked him glasses of water whenever she put the ray shield down. Rex had grabbed the cup before it spilled entirely, but by that point, there were only a few drops left. And Rex always waited until she left before he even tried to get the water off of the ground. Third Sister tried to break him, and Rex didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. 

She’d figured that out, and soon she stayed longer and longer, just sitting against the wall and staring at it. Then, before she left, she would pin him against the wall with the Force, and purposefully dry off all the water on the ground.

Still, Rex hadn’t broken. Skywalker and Cody brought him as much as they could, but their visits were rare. Third Sister came everyday, and there were a few times where she had purposefully kept him awake for days just to try and get him to confess to Ahsoka’s location. Skywalker had put that to a stop soon enough. 

Rex chugs the glass of water the bartender slides to him, letting some of it dribble down his cheeks as he gulps it down. He slams the glass back down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Cody pushes a credit chip across the counter for him. Using one hand to grip the counter, Rex reaches down to grab his bag. He pulls it up, his muscles shaking under the weight of all his armour—Force, he really needed to gain back the muscle he’d lost if he wanted to be of any use to the rebels—and uses his other hand to search for the hair dye still in the bag. Once he has it, Rex drops the bag and kicks it a bit closer to Cody’s stool. “Take care of this for me, will you?”

Cody glares at him, but Rex brushes past him and towards the latrine. Dying his hair in a public restroom is going to be annoying, but it’s far from the most embarrassing thing he’s had to do.

Luckily, no one else seems to be in the latrine at the moment. A trooper walks out of the room when Rex walks in, but other than that, it’s blissfully empty. Rex sighs and lets his shoulders drop. Other than the cell, it’s the first time he’s been alone in a month. He revels in it for a moment, of being able to let himself breathe without worrying, and then steps up to one of the mirrors.

His blonde roots are starting to show, and Rex goes through them one section at a time. The dye acts fast, and stains his hair a deep shade of black. Just like the rest of his brothers. Once he’s done, Rex waits a few minutes for it to settle in. A couple clones come through, but other than a few nods, none of them pay him much attention.

Once it’s set, Rex ruffles his hair. His new armour is already a bit stained from the dye, but he doesn’t care that much. When he looks in the mirror, he sees his brothers staring back at him. Without the blonde hair, there’s nothing separating him from the physical appearance of so many clones. Ones both dead and alive.

His blonde hair had been a mutation, and Rex knew the longnecks probably considered killing him at several different points for the ‘defect’. He scowls, mostly just on instinct. After the incident with Fives, he doubts he’ll ever be able to look at the pale fuckers the same way. None of the clones had liked them on Kamino—always so cold, treating them like they were nothing but livestock—but now Rex had a solid reason to hate them.

He sighs, and pushes himself away from the mirror. Ruminating on anger won’t do him any good. The cantina is just as crowded when he pushes open the door, and the loud sounds assault his ears all over again. Rex frowns, and makes his way towards Cody.

He’d suggested going to 79’s to try and talk to Cody about Kenobi, but he’d jumped the gun on the turbolift, and he’s pretty sure Cody won’t even look at him until he’s at least eight glasses in. 

Rex shoves the hair dye back into the bag and leans in close to Cody. The loud noise of the cantina makes his temples feel like bursting, and the bass is so powerful he can feel it running through his bones, “I’m gonna go outside for a moment.”

Cody waves him off, taking yet another sip of what has to be his third or fourth glass, and Rex pushes his way back through the crowd. This is not how he had planned for things to go. 

The fresh air hits him, and the pollution hits him seconds later. Rex wrinkles his nose, and heads off to the side of 79’s. The cantina is part of a large skyscraper, and there are plenty of alleys that zigzag around it. Rex can defend himself if needed, so he doesn’t blanch at stepping into one of them. 

79’s noise follows him outside, but it’s not nearly as loud. Rex breathes, and leans against the cool metal. What had he expected? He’d cornered Cody in a turbolift, about a subject he knew his brother is touchy about, and expected him to take it well. Sometimes, Rex feels like he’s the stupidest clone in the whole of the GAR.

Scratch that. The distinctive plastic smell of deathsticks wafts through the alleyway, and Rex turns his head. Alcohol abuse he could understand, but he had tried deathsticks once (when he was a shiny), and they had tasted like plastic and smoke. He’d coughed for days afterwards, and hadn’t even touched the drug since. Any clone that was addicted to them. . .

The offending clone stands a few feet from him, his hand clutching a thin stick. He’s smoking it then. Rex stares at the other vod for a few seconds, trying to scrutinize his face. 

“The fuck are you looking at?” the other clone mumbles, throwing his stick to the ground and stepping closer to Rex. His voice is garbled by the smoke. Rex steps backwards, raising his hands like he’s placating a wild animal. 

“Fucking shiny,” the clone grumbles, moving closer. As he gets closer and closer to the light of 79’s, Rex can make out faint coloured tattoo’s covering the trooper’s face. Familiar tattoos.

“Bly?”

Bly freezes, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. Deep bags line his eyes, along with stubble on his cheeks. Rex stops, staring at the other commander. It doesn’t take a genius to guess why he’s acting like this.

Bly’s eyes trail down Rex, settling a bit too long on his face. “Who the fuck are you?”

“N-no one, sir. A shiny. Like you said.”

Bly narrows his eyes, and Rex swears internally. The markings on their armour isn’t the only way clones differentiate between one another. Each one learned how to read the slight catches in a clone’s voice, the way they said certain words. Bly had learned that skill right along with Rex.

“Rex.”

“No.”

“Thought you washed out,” Bly growls. His eyes are watery, clouded over by the potent drug in the deathstick. He begins to circle Rex, and Rex circles him. There’s not a lot of room in the alley for a fight, and if it comes to that, Rex knows he’ll be fucked. Bly won’t hesitate to fight him, to follow orders. Rex can’t do that. 

Bly throws the first punch, and Rex dodges easily. The drug makes him sloppy, his punches far less accurate than they normally are. The pair continue circling each other. Rex won’t hurt him. He can’t. Bly is a brother, it’d be wrong. It’s not something he’s willing to even think about.

Again, Bly swings, and again, Rex ducks. “Bly, listen—”

He kicks, and Rex springs backwards. He can’t take a hit right now, and Bly is slowly backing him up into the alley. Bly’s back is to the street outside of 79’s, and the bright light coming from behind the other clone makes it so much more difficult to see his punches as they come. 

So when Bly swings one more time, it connects. Rex’s head snaps to the side, and he crumples. He hasn’t eaten since before his escape, and he’s done nothing but rot in a cell for months. Bly scrambles down to grab the other clone, and begins raining blows. He yells during it, but Rex is too distracted by the steady ‘thud, thud, thud’ of knuckles hitting his body.

Of all the ways to die, this might be one of the most unceremonious. Rex’s lip splits open, and he can barely even process a single thought before another one of Bly’s hits land. He’s sloppy, yes, but he’s angry. 

Rex coughs, the sound wet and warbling. Bly continues to hit, to punch, to hurt, and Rex closes his eyes. 

The weight of Bly’s body is suddenly yanked off of him, and Rex cracks open one eye to see another trooper holding Bly in a chokehold. Bly, already out of it, spends a few meagre seconds kicking and thrashing before he goes limp, and the other clone releases him. 

Punches make Rex’s head dizzy, and he has to glare at the other clone for a few seconds until he makes out a sharp scar snaking down his temple. Cody pulls him up, and Rex coughs as he stands up again. 

The scent of alcohol is heavy on Cody’s breath, and he pats Rex’s shoulder affectionately. He glances down at Bly, who is snoring loudly on the alley floor, and then looks back up at Rex. “Come on,” he says. “I left your bag by the—by the stool.”

* * *

She uses her winnings from the race to buy a heavily used CR90 corvette. It’s the second one she’s flown in throughout the past few months—the one Izoli gave her is still on Dantooine—and while it’s of a more advanced model, it’s not nearly as high quality as the one Izoli gave her. 

As they break through the atmosphere, the ship rocks. Ahsoka casts a glance at Samael, who was the one to come up with this plan in the first place. 

It’s simple enough on flimsi. Once Ahsoka won the podrace—which she did—they used the winnings to buy a corvette. It had to be a corvette, because that’s the only type of ship even remotely able to get past a blockade. Once they have it, they slip around the Star Destroyer and its complement, and head to Dantooine. From there, Ahsoka will meet with Obi-Wan and Padmé to determine their next action. They have to get Rex out of whatever hell he’s currently in, and then they can really get to work on dismantling the Empire.

Ahsoka hopes they’re doing alright. The growing bond between her and Obi-Wan is alight with annoyance, mostly directed at Master Yoda. From what Ahsoka’s been able to gather, Yoda doesn’t want to come and help them, for some reason. Obi-Wan hates the planet he’s stuck on, hates Yoda’s tiny hut, and hates this entire situation.

Ahsoka told him Jedi don’t hate, and the bond had gone silent for the rest of the day. Ahsoka counts that as a win. 

Petro, Katooni, and the rest of the younglings crowd around the corvette’s viewports, observing every passing piece of debris. The older ones have seen most of it already, but the younger ones are really just seeing the galaxy for the first time. Ahsoka wishes they could’ve gotten to know it as Jedi, instead of as fugitives.

“We’re coming up on the Star Destroyer,” Caleb says brightly, turning around from his place at one of the gunners to look at Ahsoka, who is currently piloting the ship.

“Thank you, Caleb,” Ahsoka grins. Caleb has taken the death of his Master harder than Samael and most of the other younglings have, and seeing him excited is good. He’s the same age she was when she first became a commander, and she hadn’t realized how young she was until she saw another fourteen year old. Why had the Jedi allowed her to command troops?

Samael remains focused on the viewport, his fingers twitching as he sits in the second gunner seat. Ahsoka presses on the throttle, and goes low as they near the Star Destroyer. “Is everything okay, Samael?”

He shakes his head. “Something is. . . wrong. On the ship,” he says, jerking his chin towards the Star Destroyer. Ahsoka frowns, slowing down a bit. They’ve already hidden the corvette from Imperial scanners, a process that took upwards of a few days, so Ahsoka takes the risk of letting herself spread out in the Force.

She taps along the ship, searching for whatever Samael felt. Everything seems fine. The ship is filled with clones and imperial officers. Nothing out of the ordinary. Still, Ahsoka says, “We’ll keep an eye out for anything suspicious, but I don’t feel anything.”

Samael shivers, and turns back to his guns. As they near the ship, Ahsoka shushes the younglings and leans forward. The corvette has a wide field of view, and it lets her see the full fleet. 

She counts about five cruisers, each carrying troops, and one large Star Destroyer. Smaller ships flick between the cruisers and the Destroyer, like fleas hopping on the back of a beast. Ahsoka sticks her tongue out a bit as she focuses a bit more. Corvettes are chosen to run blockades for a reason. They’re fast, they’re powerful, and in the hands of a pilot like her, they’re exceptionally agile. 

“First cruiser on the left,” Caleb chirps. Ahsoka nods, and banks the corvette down and to the left. Travelling through empty space makes them a blatant target, but the ships are much less likely to see them if the corvette goes under them. 

The first cruiser still carries the distinctive red of the Galactic Republic, and Ahsoka’s heart twists. She’d spent years on cruisers like the one they’re heading towards. Returning to one is all-too familiar, and Ahsoka’s instincts almost have her pull the ship towards the hangar. Nonetheless, she points them downwards, and they slip under the belly of the cruiser.

While not as big as the Star Destroyer, the cruiser is still a formidable opponent. Agains the black backdrop of space, it looks like a giant white gash, with a long, pointed nose and bright red blood adorning its surface. 

Ahsoka swerves around one of the turrets on the bottom of the cruiser. One of the younglings sniffle, and Caleb and Samael keep their hands on the gunners. Ahsoka cuts it close to the next turret, only barely keeping the ship from crashing into it. That’d be a way to go out. 

A large ravine is cut into the underside of the cruiser, and Ahsoka keeps the corvette running across the length of it. It hides them from sight, but if Ahsoka so much as bumps the surface of the cruiser, they’ll alll be detected.

Still. She learned her piloting skills from Anakin Skywalker. She’s served in countless battles. She’s survived for this long. Ahsoka will survive again. 

They press forward. The younglings are quiet while Ahsoka runs the length of the cruiser, but once they’re free, they cheer softly. Caleb shushes them, and Ahsoka laughs lightly. 

Immediately after clearing the first one, Ahsoka flits under the second one. Most of the smaller ships travelling in between the cruisers are heading in through the hangar, which is located on top of the cruiser. 

The corvette’s handles are growing slick with sweat, and Ahsoka’s muscles start to burn after being tensed for so long. She frowns, and leans forward in her seat. Dimly, she registers that she must look idiotic right now. Still, it doesn’t matter much for the time being. 

Once again, the younglings fall silent as she begins to run along the underside of this cruiser.Samael and Caleb are still sitting by the two main guns, their hands hovering over the controls. With the Force, Ahsoka tries to hide them. Most likely, it’s not working very well. She’s too focused on just making it past the cruiser, and her illusion barely works. 

It’s better than nothing, she tells herself.

They make it past the length of the second cruiser with very little fanfare—not even a cheer from the younglings—and Ahsoka moves up to the Star Destroyer.

It’s nearly twice as long as the cruisers, and lacks the traditional red paint of the Republic Destroyers. On board, Ahsoka can feel the presence of thousands upon thousands of clones, none of whom seem to be aware of her presence. Ahsoka prays she’ll be able to keep it that way. The underside of the Destroyer is a lot like that of the cruisers, just longer and with a lot more turrets. But, like the cruisers, they don’t seem to notice the single corvette slipping through the blockade. 

Ahsoka holds her breath, her stomach turning over and over and over. She’s never been very good at stealth missions, and she knows that, but that can’t matter right now. Ahsoka cannot let the younglings on board die, not like the rest of their order. Ahsoka tightens her grip on the controls and lets out a long breath.

The underside of the Destroyer is dotted with tiny, glowing structures. It’s blocky and new and has most likely never seen war. The Empire is expanding. They have new ships, new clones, and new Inquisitors. 

For a moment, Ahsoka doubts herself. For a moment, her shields fall.

The first thing that floods in is Obi-Wan. Long pulses of reassurance burn through the bond, and it makes her relax marginally. The second thing that floods in is cold. It’s burning with rage and cruelty and freezing with malevolent power and fear.

She snaps her shields up, but it’s already too late.

Ahsoka slams on the gas, and the corvette’s speed almost doubles. Samael splutters out of his seat, and the younglings stare at her. Ahsoka doesn’t care. She’d bet good money that whatever is on the ship is coming for her, for them, and she’d bet her life that it’s an Inquisitor.

The turrets on the Destroyer turn to her, and Ahsoka whimpers. Samael and Caleb snap into action, turning the guns around and preparing to fire. Ahsoka waits for the blast to hit them, but it doesn’t.

They’re saving her for the two H shaped fighters that come hurtling around the ship, firing spreads of violently green lasers at the corvette. Caleb fires first, sending shot after shot after shot after shot at the attackers.

It’s the same ship First Sister had on Tatooine, except now there’s two of them, and they’re coming after them with unmatched speed and agility. 

Ahsoka bursts out from underneath the destroyer, and presses down on the throttle. The corvette fires back at the two attackers, who dance around them. The first one is blunt, firing straight at the head of the corvette. The second attacker flies past, fires, and then flits back before coming in for another bombing. The ship rocks. Its shielding is minuscule, and everything in Ahsoka screams, because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go, they were supposed to be _safe_ —

She grasps at the bond with Obi-Wan, trying to find something to ground her as she frantically tries to outrun the two fighters. Still, they come after her with unmatched ferocity. She can’t fail. She won’t fail. It’s not an option.

Obi-Wan sends waves of confidence, of calm, through their bond and Ahsoka takes a deep, heaving breath. It catches in her throat, but it calms her. She focuses, and lets herself sink into the Force. They know she’s here. She doesn’t have much to lose. 

Samael and Caleb throw commands between one another, but Ahsoka mostly tunes them out. She searches for both of the fighters in the Force, and when they fire, she’s ready. 

Ahsoka yanks the corvette, and they fall into a long barrel roll to the right. Each one of the shots misses, and the fighters roll back in. Ahsoka grins, her pulse picking up, her confidence rising. This is what she’s used to.

She burns the engines, and Caleb whoops as he hits one of the fighters. It doesn’t go down, but one of the panels lining its side busts. Ahsoka howls, and settles into her seat. She reaches down, down, down into the Force and beams. 

Each shot from the fighters miss, and Ahsoka is whooping along with the rest of the younglings, and—

The ship rocks, and something goes splintering off. Ahsoka spares a few precious seconds to glance at the monitor, and then looks to Samael for information. His dark skin is drained of blood, and he looks a few shades too pale.

“We lost an escape pod,” he says, firing on both of the ships. It rocks again. “Another one.”

Ahsoka swears under her breath, and pokes at both of the presences attacking them. They both lash out at her, baring their anger and hatred and fear in the Force.

She shivers, and glances back, in the general direction of the escape pods. Something hits the ship, but not a bolt. The ship groans. Ahsoka barks out, “Scan for the fighters.”

“Nothing,” Caleb says. Ahsoka stares down at her hands. They couldn’t have just disappeared, they wouldn’t just let them go like that, and then it clicks. 

Ahsoka shoots out of her seat, “Petro, take the younglings and hide. Do not come out until one of us comes and finds you.”

Petro nods, and Ahsoka continues, “Caleb, Samael, come with me. Bring your lightsabers.” 

Originally, she had laid her electrobatons against the wall of the ship. After her flying, they’re strewn across the floor. Ahsoka calls them to her, and lights them up as Petro leads the younglings out of the cockpit and into the personal quarters. Samael and Caleb follow her. 

“They’re by the escape pods,” she murmurs, keeping her voice low. “Make sure you’re shielding as best you can.”

Obi-Wan has stopped sending anything, but she can feel him across the bond. She sends a quick, general impression of ‘I’m alright’ to him before she raises her shields. Neither of the Inquisitors—because they have to be Inquisitors—will be able to feel her, but she won’t be able to feel them. Ahsoka raises a hand, and the lights throughout the corvette dim. 

The three of them creep forward, slowly. The dull buzz of her electrobatons is the only sound other than their breathing as they move through the narrow halls of the corvette.

As far as Ahsoka can tell, the Inquisitors shot off two escape pods, and docked their fighters on the corvette. It shouldn’t be possible, but Ahsoka has done the impossible before. She knows not to underestimate your opponent.

They enter the docking bay, which is relatively small compared to what she’s used to. Two of the escape pods have been shot off, and instead of their clean white interiors, two dark cockpits are attached to their ship. 

Something dark and large and too tall and too powerful bases into her, and Ahsoka yelps. She brings her batons up in time to block a grey-skinned Inquisitor’s strong blow. His lightsaber illuminates the harsh contours of his face, and Ahsoka shudders. Reaching into the Force, she floods her body with its power and uses it to kick the inquisitor off of her. Both Caleb and Samael face the other Inquisitor, who is smaller and flightier.

Her Inquisitor strikes again, and Ahsoka blocks. Again, and she blocks. Her electrobatons are a far cry from her lightsabers. If she attacks, he will cut through both her arm and her weapon like cloth. 

So she resorts to something else.

Ahsoka adjusts her grip on her batons, sliding into a familiar reverse grip, and shifts them so they’re lower in her hands. Pressed against her palms with her thumb locking the handles in place, leaving her fingers free. She leans into the Force, and before the inquisitor strikes, Ahsoka ducks under his ‘saber and uses her hands to press against his elbows, knocking him off balance. As she does so, Ahsoka lets her electrobatons drag across his thighs. 

The inquisitor hisses in frustration, and she smiles. He’s good, but he lacks precision. His dark clothes ripple as he raises his hands over his head, going in for a strong overhead strike, and Ahsoka goes low, jamming her feet into his ankles. 

He falls, and she slams the electrobaton into his stomach. He tenses, his teeth grinding together. His red lightsaber deactivates, and Ahsoka drops one of her batons to call it to her. Muscles tensing rapidly, spittle dribbling from the corner of his mouth, it only takes a few seconds before the inquisitor’s life fizzles out. 

For a brief moment, guilt wells up inside of her. Then, she shoves it down. She did what she had to do. He was going to kill her and the rest of the younglings. There’s no time for remorse. That’ll come later.

Ahsoka turns towards Caleb just as the remaining Inquisitor sends him flying across the room with a well-placed kick. She turns to Samael, attacking with wide strokes. Samael parries perfectly. The inquisitor hasn’t even noticed Ahsoka.

Ahsoka drops her second baton and ignites one of the two lightsaber blades. It feels good, _right_ , to have a lightsaber in her hand again. The hilt is wrong, yes, but the weight is perfect, the balance is perfect, and Ahsoka flips her new lightsaber into her signature reverse grip. 

“Samael, take Caleb and protect the younglings,” she says once the the inquisitor relents. The inquisitor, clad in smooth black armour, snaps to look at her. Samael takes the distraction and flicks her lightsaber out of her hand, then runs for Caleb. The inquisitor scrambles for her lightsaber, and Samael makes it out, Caleb on his back. 

Ahsoka twirls her lightsaber. This one has a circular. . . design on the hilt that makes it difficult to turn, but she can work with it. The kyber crystal still burns red, but it sings for her. This is her lightsaber.

“Thank you for taking care of Sixth Brother for me,” the inquisitor says, flying at Ahsoka. Their blades meet, red against red, and the inquisitor snarls, “I’ve been trying to get rid of him this whole mission.”

For a moment their blades lock, and Ahsoka takes that precious time to pick out every tiny flaw in the inquisitor’s form. She’s smart, and well-trained, but she’s weak. From the seconds she saw of her duel with Samael, Ahsoka knows enough to pick her apart.

The inquisitor ignites the second blade, and twirls the saberstaff. Mid-twirl, Ahsoka swings her lightsaber in a wide arc. The inquisitor meets her, and Ahsoka ignites the other half of her blade. She drives it low, and the inquisitor barely catches the blade. Ahsoka deactivates that half, and swings at the inquisitor’s head.

Her opponent springs back, her chest heaving. She twirls her lightsaber, leaving deep scorch marks in the metal they stand on as she does. “I know you.”

“You do.”

“Ahsoka Tano. Right?” the inquisitor asks. Without any anger, Ahsoka can make out the soft tones of the inquisitor’s voice. A child. Barely over fifteen, if Ahsoka guesses correctly.

“I’m honoured,” Ahsoka says flatly, before they spring back into action. In a series of hits too fast to really track, Ahsoka pushes the inquisitor back towards the escape pods. The Inquisitor’s breath is heavy, and Ahsoka can hear it clearly even through the mask. She’s tiring, and quickly.

When the inquisitor relents for a moment, Ahsoka knees her in her stomach. The inquisitor crumples, and Ahsoka raises her new lightsaber above her head. The inquisitor scrambles backwards, using her elbows to drag herself alone. 

A sour note of fear, of anger, and of unending pain rips through the Force around her, and the inquisitor lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob. Ahsoka keeps her lightsaber held high, but her eyes drift to the corpse of the other inquisitor. Sixth Brother. 

This inquisitor is scared. She doesn’t want to die, and she’s little more than a child. Ahsoka tightens her grip. She’s a threat, and she tried to come after the younglings. If Ahsoka kills her, she’ll be protecting the younglings.

Ahsoka banishes that thought, and drops her lightsaber. She deactivates it as she does so, and pushes the inquisitor into the open escape pod behind her with the Force. Before the inquisitor can react, Ahsoka closes the door and sends her out into the never-ending black. She won’t die in the pod, but she won’t be able to help the Empire anymore. For Ahsoka and the younglings, that's good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so originally this chapter was supposed to include anakin's adventures on kashyyyk + some more padmé, but then once i finished the ahsoka section, it was already at 9k, and would've been way too long for a single chapter. unfortunately, that means that the reunions are pushed back a bit more (it makes me just as emo as you, don't worry) because i am a terrible human being
> 
> that being said, the next chapter is incredibly important in the grand scheme of things, so it may take a bit longer to write. plus, my grandpa's birthday is on sunday and my family is going up to visit him (we've been in quarantine dw). i'm not going to have a lot of time to write while i'm there, BUT it is a two hour drive to get there and a two hour drive back, so you might be surprised with an update. MAYBE. but don't get your hopes up. next update will mostly be on monday or tuesday.
> 
> additionally, we might not see a lot of obi-wan until he's done with yoda. i tried writing some scenes with him and it's just kinda him asking yoda to stop being a punk bitch and yoda going 'heeheehoohoo like you, i do not !! come with you, i will not !! go die in a pit, you can!!'. so obi-wan won't show up for a while which makes me emo because i love him but i promise the boy is coming back as soon as i can make him
> 
> as always, thank you for reading !!
> 
> POSTED 27/06/2020


	13. Ghosts on Kashyyyk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rex and Cody remove Bly's chip. Padmé meets with Naboo's reigning monarch, Queen Apailana. Anakin oversees a sap refinery on Kashyyyk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thank you to user curseofmen for helping me with the first scene of this chapter !! her works are beautiful, and if you're looking for some premium ahsoka & anakin & obi-wan fics, i suggest you go to her page to find some !!
> 
> tw / cw for decapitation. like always, nothing too gory, and nothing too graphic.

Dragging Bly out of 79’s is easy enough. He looks like every other drunk trooper at the cantina, and with two clones accompanying him, no one looks twice. So when Cody and Rex load him into a taxi and tell the driver to head to the lower levels, the driver obliges.

Bly’s head lolls back and forth as the taxi moves through traffic, and Rex and Cody sit on either side of him. Rex’s bag lays on the floor of the taxi, his blasters laying within it. If he needs to, he’ll be able to blast his way out of this.

But that’s the worst-case scenario. Bly had been smoking a death stick when Rex found him and knowing Cody’s punches, the clone would most likely be out for a while. Enough time for them to find a clinic at the very least. 

Going back to a Star Destroyer won’t work. Rex and Cody don’t look like other troopers with their new armour, so their presence on board the wrong ship would draw too much attention. Skywalker is on Kashyyyk with the _Devastator_ , and won’t be in contact with them. 

Still, they need to get the chip out. Cody and Rex didn’t even talk about it, they had merely silently agreed to get the chip removed. They might not be able to save all their brothers, but they can save this one, and that’s worth any attention they might draw from doing so. Cody, who is still a bit drunk, went to grab Rex’s bag while Rex stayed with Bly. Then they called a taxi, and now they’re here, dealing with this. 

Rex has the steps to take out the chip memorized. How could he not? He knows how to get the chip out, but the main issue is how. Removing the chip in an Imperial hospital would get them caught. They’re not like Skywalker, and while Cody is a commander, he doesn’t have the amount of power needed to cover it up. Skywalker did, and he had the bonus of Cody already being in the hospital—because Skywalker had choked him, Rex reminds himself—so no one would question him being there. They don’t have that cover, and that’s what’s going to make this so much more difficult.

The driver glances at Rex in the driver’s mirror, his round green eyes taking up the entire mirror. Rex shifts, Bly leaning on him. Does the driver recognize him? His eyes are focused on the clones, after all. He can’t know who they are, and there is no conceivable way he knows what they’re about to do. They’re fine. A random taxi driver being a spy for the Empire is a coincidence too impossible for the universe to throw at them.

Bly mumbles, words tumbling out of his mouth half-formed. Rex stares down at him. In the months since Order 66, Bly has deteriorated entirely. His skin is dry, with deep bags under his eyes. Most clones don’t get much sleep—too many nightmares—but Bly looks like he hasn’t slept since the day he left his pod. Thin stubble covers his chin, and there are a few more bruises on his face. He’s been picking fights, the same way he picked a fight with Rex for simply looking at him. 

The taxi shudders and Rex looks away from Bly. Up here, it’s too heavily guarded for him and Cody to remove the chip. The lower they go, the fewer clones there’ll be. Having said that, Rex knows that as they descend further down, the number of bounty hunters will increase as well. There shouldn’t be a specific bounty on Bly, Cody, or Rex unless Bly had gotten himself in more trouble than Rex first thought, but there might be a simple bounty on all clones. 

They’re not exactly loved, after all. The upper-level citizens see them as symbols of the Empire’s power, and, during the war, loyal, brave soldiers laying down their lives for the Republic. That sentiment dies after you get a few levels from the surface. Criminals don’t appreciate extra military presence in their workplace.

The taxi speeder grinds to a halt, and Rex tosses the driver a thin credit chip while Cody pulls Bly out of the taxi. He slings his bag over his shoulder and scoots out of the faux leather seats. As soon as they’re all out, the driver speeds off, leaving a puff of smoke hanging around the platform they dropped them off at. 

Cody was the one who chose the location, and Rex looks around with disdain. They’re a few dozen levels down, but unlike the other levels, this one is lit only by cold white lights. Not the neon colours of the entertainment district, of 79’s, just a cold, sterile white. And, unlike the rest of Imperial Centre, everyone seems to be in their homes. 

Rex walks over to Cody and Bly and slips one of the unconscious trooper’s arms around his shoulders. Cody directs them, and Rex makes sure Bly doesn’t fall or wake up. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

“Positive,” Cody murmurs, searching the buildings for. . . _something_. Most clones spent their time with their brothers, not in the underworld, but Rex guesses that if Cody spent months alone, without him or the 212th or even anyone familiar from the 501st, he must’ve made some friends elsewhere.

“And you’re sure we can trust whoever you’re taking us to?”

“He’s good. I’ve checked.”

Rex will take that. If Cody trusts this person, then so will he. Rex adjusts Bly’s arm. The strap of his bag is starting to fall between the plates of armour on his suit, cutting into his blacks. The armour is ill-fitting—something to do with oh, he doesn’t know, the starvation—but he knows that the longer he wears it, the more he’ll get used to it. Still, he misses his clone armour. 

Cody drags them into a small alleyway and then stops in front of a thin door. It looks like the backdoor of a cantina, not the door to someone with medical expertise. In the harsh white light, Bly looks even paler. A thin string of spit falls from his open mouth, and Rex lets go of him for a moment to wipe it off.

Cody raps on the door once, waits exactly three seconds, and knocks seven times more. He waits, and Rex counts the seconds—seven—until Cody knocks once more. After that, his fist drops. Muffled yelling comes from behind the door, and the doorknob twists. 

A hunched Togruta, his montrals curving around themselves, opens the door. He looks at Cody and then jerks his head for the commander to bring Bly in. Rex can’t tell if the doctor lets him in because he’s a clone, or because he’s Cody. Rex and Cody drag Bly up the stairs and into the darkly lit room.

It smells of blood and burning, and the ground is a tangle of wires. There’s a table in the middle of the room, with a single light hanging above it. 

“Put him on the cot,” the Togruta says, his voice like the scrape of metal on metal. His skin is mottled yellow, and there’s a round imprint around his eyes from his goggles, which are currently resting atop the crown of his large forehead. 

The Togruta smacks his lips like he’s chewing a cud, and squints at Rex. “Who’re you?”

“Bones,” Rex responds, defaulting to the name he’d agreed on using with Cody. The doctor extends a hand, and Rex stares down at his bony fingers before he shakes it.

“Doctor Anansi.”

“He runs a clinic out of his home,” Cody explains, as Anansi begins to hook up Bly to all manner of machines. “He doesn’t ask questions, and he doesn’t deal with Imperials.”

Rex eyes his equipment. Most of it is slightly yellowed, with what looks like blood marks on some of them. All of it is blocky, with chunky buttons and brightly coloured lights. “And the equipment?” he whispers to Cody, out of earshot of the now humming Anansi. 

“Old, but he does good work,” Cody whispers back as Anansi pulls two thick gloves over his hands. He pries Bly’s eyes open and shines a light in the pale brown iris. “What am I doing?”

“There’s an inhibitor chip in his brain,” Cody steps closer to the rickety cot. “Get it out.”

“Who put it there?”

“Does it matter?” Rex asks. Anansi turns to him, blinking a few times, like a battle droid processing new information.

“It does. Different doctors put chips in different places,” he says like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Kaminoans,” Cody answers for Rex. Anansi nods and toddles off into the recesses of his workshop. 

“You’re sure about this?”

“For the last time, yes,” Cody says, staring down at Bly. Rex looks around the workshop. Like the rest of this level, the room is lit by a single white light. Equipment is piled high around Bly’s still unconscious body, seemingly looted from several different hospitals. 

Anansi comes back around a corner, this time with his goggles covering his eyes. His lekku are long, brushing the floor as his hunched figure walks, and his montrals are twisted. His yellow skin droops and sags, and he needs a stool to be able to work on Bly.

Anansi already hooked Bly up to numerous machines, but now he places a small mask over the clone’s face. Rex shifts, his armour clicking as he does. Bly can’t die now.

As Anansi cleans his tools, he says, “You two might want to step outside.”

Rex isn’t planning on leaving, but Cody grabs his arm and drags him through the room, towards the same back door they came through. Even through his bucket, it takes a few seconds for Rex’s eyes to readjust to the bright lights of this level. 

Cody settles onto the stairs in front of the door and pulls off his helmet. Rex does the same and takes a deep breath as the plastic smell of the air hits him. He places his helmet on his knees and leans his elbows on it.

“Is he going to be okay?” Rex asks, staring at the building across from the door. Next to him, Cody sighs.

“I don’t know.”

“He won’t die though? Right?” Rex says. He can’t lose more brothers. Not like this. Never like this.

“Dr. Anansi is good. Bly won’t die but. . .”

“But?”

Cody looks at Rex, who looks back at him with wide eyes. “You know how close he was to General Secura.”

“Oh.”

“She died. Bly confirmed it himself.”

Rex turns back to stare at the wall. Skywalker and Rex worked with General Secura and Commander Bly exactly once in the entire war, and that had been within the first year. Even then, he had known. General Secura and Bly were too close, too comfortable with each other. No one said anything, because it was dangerous for Bly as a commander and Aayla as a Jedi. But it had been the GAR’s worst kept secret.

And he had killed her.

Rex’s eyes drift to Cody, who is staring at the wall blankly. He doesn’t look sad; just tired. Rex can’t blame him. He’s like Bly. A clone who killed his general. The only difference is that Bly is just on the cusp of realizing it, while Cody has already dealt with it, alone.

“How long do you think it will take?” Cody asks, breaking the tense silence that had formed between them. Rex rubs his face. Stubble is growing on his chin and lower cheeks, and it grinds against his armour. 

“I don’t know. How long did getting your chip out take?”

Cody shrugs. “General Skywalker did it.”

His brother tenses slightly at that, pulling at his fingers.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Rex asks clumsily. They don’t talk about this, _clones_ don’t talk about this. He’d comforted dozens of his brothers while they sobbed into his shoulders, and been comforted in return. But they never talked about it, even when it seemed wiser to do so. This is new territory.

Cody sighs, and leans his head in his hands. “I-I don’t know. Everything is so complicated now, and I don’t. . . I don’t know.”

Rex sets a hand on Cody’s shoulder, gripping it slightly. “I know.”

“I can’t blame him,” Cody whispers, his voice coming out as little more than a breath. “Skywalker. I can’t blame him.”

“Cody. . .”

Cody looks at Rex, and the pain in his eyes makes Rex’s fortitude crumble. His brother, who had served through the war, had saved countless clones, had killed his general.

“I would’ve done the same,” Cody admits. Rex’s empty hand latches onto Cody’s other shoulder, and he pulls his brother into a hug. Rex’s helmet tumbles off his lap, the sound echoing around the alleyway.

Cody leans into him, sniffling softly. 

“It’s not your fault,” Rex murmurs. “It was never your fault.”

Everything is silent for a few precious seconds, with only the sound of Cody crying into Rex’s shoulder resonating within the alleyway. After a few seconds more, Cody shoves himself off of Rex and wipes his nose. 

The light of this level comes from behind Cody, and Rex can barely make out his brother’s features. He doesn’t need to. 

“I killed my general.”

“You didn’t,” Rex insists. 

“But I did, Rex. I-I ordered the shot, and I didn’t do anything to stop it.”

“You couldn’t.”

“If I had tried harder, if I’d been better—”

“You don’t need to be better,” Rex assures him. Cody’s palms are clutching his temples, and he refuses to look at Rex.

“Palpatine plotted this for years. He made the chips, fuck Cody, he made _us._ None of us could’ve stopped it.”

Cody closes his eyes. Rex continues, “You were the GAR’s best commander. You still are. You’ve saved your men countless times. You broke me out of an Imperial prison, you don’t need to be better.”

“But I should’ve been—” Cody spits out through clenched teeth, and Rex cuts him off.

“You couldn’t have been.”

His brother is too tense, too unforgiving. It’s so simple, and while Rex wants to be mad at him for not understanding, he knows all too well what it’s like to be behind the trigger. 

“You’re a good man. You didn’t get a choice. It wasn’t you.”

Cody presses his lips together and shifts a bit on the stairs. A speeder passes by on the nearby street, but Rex doesn’t look at it. Cody sighs, a long sound, and shakes his head. “Never mind."

“Cody—” Rex starts before Anansi slams the door back open. Neither Rex nor Cody jumps, but they do turn too quickly, hands straying too close to their hips. Anansi’s pale face just stares back at them, before he walks back into the room. 

“Is he done?” Rex asks, to which Cody simply stands up, grabs his helmet and walks into the dark room. Rex follows, tucking his helmet under his arm. 

Bly is still unconscious, with the thin layer of hair that once covered his head shaved clean off. He looks even paler on the operating table, and Rex glances at Cody nervously.

“He’ll be up in a few minutes,” Anansi says before he waddles off into the room. Rex doesn’t follow him. Bly is going to be up soon, and they’re going to have to explain everything to him.

He doesn’t know where to start. Cody had understood it, because Skywalker had told him, and Rex had put it together the second Palpatine issued the Order. Bly doesn’t have that benefit, doesn’t have that knowledge. And from what Cody and Wolffe told him about the memories, it was going to be painful.

First, you were just confused. Like waking up after any other surgery, and then it hits you all at once. The chip represses any emotions connected to the Jedi to encourage obedience, and when it’s gone, all of those emotions spill out like a broken dam. You have to process everything right then and there, all the horror and pain of killing a friend without being able to do anything about it. Like you’re in a body that’s not your own.

It’s not something Rex would wish on anyone. And as Bly slowly wakes up, muttering syllables and twitching, Rex tries to prepare himself. He’s faced down battalions of battle droids, he can deal with this.

The first thing Bly does is let out a long groan, one of his hands landing on his forehead as he tries to push himself up. Cody sets a hand on his shoulder, keeping him down. Bly blinks.

“Cody? Where the fuck. . .” he starts, before his eyes widen slightly. Rex sets his hand on the cot as Bly begins to realize what he’d done.

Both Cody and Rex have to hold him down as Bly struggles to get up, his breath bubbling out of him in choked gasps and whimpers. Words tumble out of his mouth, some of them in heavily accented Twi’leki. 

Bly’s hands beat at the cot, and he frantically tries to shove Cody and Rex off. “Let me go! I have to-I have to—”

“Breathe, Bly. Breathe,” Cody yells, his voice significantly less soothing than it’s supposed to be. Bly is coming down from a death stick induced high, as well as the anesthesia Anansi must’ve used, and his shaky movements only remind Rex of that.

The commander hiccups through his tears, his teeth clenched together as he tries to get up. Rex holds him down while his limbs thrash, hitting the cot with the ferocity Rex has come to expect from Bly. Rex bites back his tears.

“Bly. It’s okay, you’re okay—”

“Where is she?” Bly chokes out. “Whe-where’s the general? Where’s Aayla?”

Cody and Rex glance at each other, and Bly takes their moment of distraction to shove Cody off and push himself out of the cot. 

He tumbles headfirst into a stack of medical monitors, sending several of them crashing down. Bly falls, and Rex jumps to catch him. He falls into him, a feverish weight in Rex’s arms. “Bly. You’re okay.”

“Aayla?”

After a few seconds where neither Rex nor Cody responds, Bly clutches at the back of Rex’s neck and asks again, “Aayla?”

Cody kneels next to them, and Bly stares at him, and then, slowly, torturously, Cody shakes his head. Bly sways, his grip falling from Rex’s neck. He stares blankly at the ground, tears sliding down his face to collect on his chin and then drop onto the floor.

Cody and Rex both hug Bly at the same time, and the commander devolves into muttering something over and over again, leaning his forehead against Rex’s shoulder. His snot and tears cover Rex’s plastoid armour, sinking through the cracks of the armour plates to his blacks.

“You’re okay, Bly. You’re okay.”

* * *

Queen Apailana looks far too young to be out of school, much less be a queen. Was Padmé truly that young when she became Queen?

She throws that thought out of her head and adjusts her clothing. The heavy handmaiden’s robe fits well on her small frame, and it’s both funny and sad that she’s able to pose as a twelve-year-old without anyone else looking twice. 

Her parents, both not without connections, had contacted someone working within Theed’s Royal Palace, who had agreed to smuggle her in to meet the Queen under the guise of a handmaiden. Apailana hadn’t been informed of who exactly she would be meeting, only that they were a politician of Naboo. An innocent phrase, and hopefully too vague for her to pin down Padmé as that politician. She loathes to admit it, but Palpatine had done a great job making Padmé look dead. Her disappearance probably helped, but Padmé had watched her funeral (a phrase she never thought she’d say) and it’d been very convincing. She hadn’t contacted anyone before she went to Polis Massa, aside from Obi-Wan. There was no one to say she was alive. Soon after the twins were born, he’d met with Bail Organa and Master Yoda. He’d come back covered in scorch marks and told her the story later.

The Jedi Temple’s beacon had been activated, and both Yoda and Obi-Wan went to disable it before any Jedi fell into the trap. While he was there, he took the chance to look at the security footage. Even worse, he’d brought it back for her.

She must’ve watched it ten times over within the first few minutes. Anakin was there, alive, and seemed so real that Padmé had reached out for him, the way she had reached out for him during their many holocalls. Through tears, Padmé watched as Anakin led a group of younglings to safety, only to head off in a speeder and disappear from the frame. 

She thought he was alive after that, and bugged Obi-Wan to lower his shields for long enough to check. Obi-Wan had returned with the grim confirmation that the bond was broken, and he couldn’t find Anakin anywhere. That was enough confirmation for Padmé.

Though, Padmé notes as she travels behind Apailana through the palace, the Queen is insightful. Her rise to the throne is testimony to that. There are only so many politicians on Naboo and even fewer that would need to meet with the Queen in secret. 

Additionally, Padmé had met the Queen more than a few times. She’d directly supported her campaign, and, as Naboo’s representative, had discussed the current political climate with Apailana. So Padmé knows exactly who she’ll be going against.

Apailana, dressed in a deep lilac gown, walks up the stairs into her palace. Her handmaidens, including Padmé, surround her, like a flock of ducklings following their mother. Each one is dressed in pale lilac robes, and they look down as they walk. Padmé, her body still remembering her days as Queen, blends in with them easily. 

As the palace doors close behind them, the cheering of the city behind them vanishes. Apailana had given a speech lauding the Emperor, a son of Naboo himself, for his contributions to the galaxy after on the anniversary of the day he was elected as Supreme Chancellor.

Padmé’s skin prickles at that. The phantom weight of her headdress is heavy on the crown of her head. Years ago, when she was still adjusting to her role as Queen, she had worn that headdress like it was a part of her. Back when she still considered Palpatine a friend. She’d been considered his protégée at one point in her career, after all. Had it all just been a ploy for power? She’d been as instrumental in his rise to power as the Clone Wars.

She couldn’t have known, then. Padmé had been focused on Naboo, like any good Queen would be. Valorum refused to stop the occupation of her people, so Padmé did what she had to. She can’t blame herself for that. Much like the rest of the Republic, she had been rendered powerless in the last weeks of the war.

Besides, she had tried. The Petition of 2000 is proof she did. And she’s still trying to fix it, even when she doesn’t have to. Padmé cannot let one man tear the democracy she had defended for so many years apart.

Apailana’s path twists, and her handmaidens follow. She floats over the ground, her purple gown befitting of a Queen. The residential quarters. More specifically, the eastern wing, where the monarch and their handmaidens traditionally reside. 

Stained glass windows smear the floor in shades of rosy pink, and Apailana’s dress goes from a deep purple to a burning magenta. Once they step through the entryway into the residential wing, the handmaidens file off into orderly rows and head to their rooms. Both Padmé and another handmaiden follow Apailana as she pushes open the door to her room. As Padmé enters, she closes the door behind herself.

It’s the same room Padmé lived in while she was Queen, albeit remodelled. Same high ceilings, airy quarters, and the same decadent decoration. Sunlight shines off of gilded statues, and Apailana settles onto a clawfoot couch. Her true handmaiden takes up guard behind her while Padmé sits down on the couch opposite her. 

Apailana’s voluminous skirts fill the entire couch, and, sitting across from her, Padmé feels tiny. A small glass table with a few carefully placed holonovels sits between them, and it makes the distance between her and the Queen that much more palpable.

“Queen Apailana,” Padmé smiles. Apailana’s face does not move. “It’s an honour to meet you again.”

“I wasn’t aware we’d met before,” Apailana says. Padmé takes a deep breath and tries to calm down her racing heart. Breathe, Padmé tells herself. Apailana is an ally. Revealing herself, in this circumstance, is her best move. Apailana will not listen to her otherwise. Senator Amidala has influence. A faceless politician does not.

“I supported you in your bid for Queen,” Padmé says, pulling her hood down slowly. She is supposed to be a dead woman, after all. 

Apailana’s mouth quivers, and a slight furrow appears between her carefully plucked eyebrows. “Senator Amidala?”

“It’s good to see you again, your highness.”

“And you as well, Senator,” Apailana smiles, the purple line on her lips stretching upwards as she does. Relief fills her face, though the Queen tries to hide it. “We thought you were dead.”

Apailana glances at her handmaiden for a second, and Padmé only smiles and folds her hands in her lap, as calmly as she can. Her handmaiden shuffles in her spot, tilting her head up a bit so her eyes meet Padmé’s.

“My apologies, your highness. That wasn’t my intention,” Padmé says, and after a few seconds, adds, “You do not have to call me Senator anymore.”

Apailana laughs sadly, before her head tilts in the direction of her handmaiden, though her eyes remain locked on Padmé, “Melle, we have a guest. Please, bring tea.”

Melle bows, and scurries off out of the room and towards the kitchen. The handmaiden’s movements are calm, confident, but there’s an urgency to her motions. Apailana regards her calmly, picking over every facet on her appearance. Padmé tries to look as composed as she can, but her sleepless nights are weighing on her.

Between the twins and her dreams, Padmé doubts she’s slept more than three hours at a time in months. The twins’ sleep schedule was starting to get more and more regular when she left, but they’re almost six months old now. It’s too dangerous to contact Dantooine right now, but Padmé left the twins with a Mon Calamari warrior, Naer Pattel, and Threepio had stayed with them to take care of their needs while Naer serves as protection. Obi-Wan had taken Artoo with him to find Yoda, citing the astromech’s abilities. Despite that, Padmé knows he only took Artoo with him because the droid reminds him of Anakin. Master Unduli, still half-recovering from her ordeal on Stygeon Prime, had flown out to the far reaches of the galaxy in search of surviving Jedi. 

She sighs. Even with the twins lightyears away, she still can’t sleep. Padmé is used to sleeping alone—Anakin was often away on long campaigns, and even when he was home she stayed late at the Senate most nights—but her dreams grow more and more vivid as time passes. 

“With all due respect, Senator, why have you not revealed your survival?” Apailana asks, breaking Padmé out of her reverie. Apailana is terribly formal, her gaze digging into Padmé’s skin. Let it never be said that Naboo’s politicians are weak. 

“My enemies don’t want the people to know I live. If I reveal myself, I make myself more of a target than I already am,” Padmé responds simply. She doesn’t reveal more than she has to, not until Apailana tips her hand first. Acting too soon, too obviously, is more dangerous than any blaster could be. During Apailana’s election, Padmé had come to know her. She cannot imagine a world where the girl would support Palpatine, but she’d never been able to imagine a world without the Republic, either. Things are different now. Everyone is an enemy.

“Then why have you come?” Apailana tilts her head, the baubles and chains on her silver headdress swaying as she does. Her white makeup accentuates the deep, earthy tones of her eyes.

“Pardon me, your highness?” Padmé says cordially. The velvet of her dress shimmers as she straightens. Her heart is beating in slow, steady notes, and while she’s sweating almost as much as she did on Tatooine, she’s comfortable. Padmé has been a politician longer than Apailana has been alive. 

“Surely, you must realize that coming here is dangerous. I am Queen of a planet that has championed democracy for years. Naboo is a threat to the Empire. We are being monitored,” Apailana says casually, shrugging her shoulders. Her heavy robes slide over one another as she does. Padmé pauses, and her experience in politics does not hide the slight hitch in her voice as she speaks.

“Here?”

“Not inside the palace, no, but on our planet. We’re considered too dangerous to be left alone. So, why risk it? Why are you here?” Apailana leans forward slightly, her headdress swaying dangerously.

Melle’s soft steps make Padmé’s head snap up. The handmaiden places a small tray of cups and tea on the table and pours it for them. As the lemon tea—Padmé knows it from the smell alone—pours into the gold and white cups, Padmé tries to think of her next move. 

“Thank you, Melle,” Apailana smiles softly, staring at her handmaiden with pure, unabashed love. Innocent love. The Queen takes the cup Melle offers her and takes a tiny sip. Her white powdered face is the same shade as the cup, except the cup has a small, painted flower on its side. Melle hands her a cup as well, and Padmé thanks her. She takes a sip and smiles. Lemon tea has always been her favourite.

“You know, they once attempted to amend the constitution to keep me in office,” Padmé says casually, while Melle takes her place behind the Queen. Apailana raises an eyebrow.

“I know. I hope to be as beloved as you one day, Senator.”

“I’m sure you will be, your highness,” Padmé says, taking another sip of her tea. She does not miss the way that Apailana glances at Melle, her lips curving up in a half-contained smile. Padmé sets her cup on a thin white saucer and continues, “But if they offer you an amendment, another chance at power, will you take it?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Padmé leans forward, letting her determination leak into her words. Apailana takes a long sip, and her eyes darken as she gathers her words. The Queen of Naboo looks up, and her words are full of conviction.

“Because I believe in democracy. The will of the people. An amendment to the constitution is an amendment to Naboo’s foundation, and I do not wish to see our planet crumble.”

“The way the Republic did?” Padmé tilts her head, watching as Apailana’s face goes ever so slightly red. Under her white makeup, it looks like little more than a slight pink tinge on her cheeks, but Padmé spent years in that makeup. She knows it better than she knows herself. Padmé sets her tea and saucer down on the small glass table. She takes a deep breath, and the early morning air sends goosebumps rippling down her arms. The air is heavy with the fragrant smell of the lemon tea.

“My point, my Queen, is this. The Empire is a mockery of everything Naboo stands for, of everything I and many others have fought for, bled for. It is unjust, and under it, the people of the galaxy will suffer,” Padmé says, her words soft. Still, she holds the attention of the entire room, including Melle. The handmaiden stares down, her face covered by her purple velvet hood. Still, the corners of her lips quirk upwards as the conversation continues.

“What are you suggesting, Senator?” Apailana says. In the early morning light, her headdress glows like a lit lightsaber.

“I’m asking Naboo to stand with us,” Padmé asks, watching Apailana carefully. Melle looks at her, and for a few seconds, Padmé worries that they’re going to pull blasters on her.

“You are suggesting treason,” Apailana says, her voice far too calm for the gravity of her words.

“I am suggesting justice,” Padmé argues. In her mind, she is back in the Senate rotunda, arguing her latest bill. In her mind, she has the support of her allies and her friends and Anakin. 

“Right now, I believe those words are synonymous,” Apailana points out. She sighs and leans forwards. Her headdress sways but does not fall. Apailana takes a long breath, and when she looks up, she is not a Queen, but a child.

“I am a daughter of Naboo, Senator. This new Empire is a dictatorship, run by a man with little care for morals or ethics. It is unjust, and it is wrong.”

Padmé raises an eyebrow, and can’t help the tiny burst of excitement in her chest. “So you’ll stand with us?”

“No.”

“No?” Padmé repeats. Apailana leans back, sinking into her couch. Her dark eyes flick from spot to spot around the room, and a surge of maternal protectiveness fills Padmé’s chest. This is a child, thrust into politics. 

“My people elected me to protect them. I cannot do that if I lead them into a war,” Apailana whispers, sounding a bit too broken for Padmé’s liking. The once-senator frowns and picks up her tea again. It’s not steaming anymore but is still hot enough for her to drink without shivering.

“The rest of the galaxy will suffer under the Empire.” Padmé points out. “You command one of the most influential planets in the galaxy, and you could stop tyranny at its heart.”

“My concern is not the galaxy, it is Naboo. I will do what is best for my people, and drawing the anger of Emperor Palpatine is not the way to do so,” Queen Apailana repeats, her eyes blank. 

Padmé sighs, and, in a tone of voice both quiet and commanding, points out, “If you think the Emperor will let you make any actual decisions, you’re wrong.”

“I haven’t done anything to them,” Apailana says, her queenly mask breaking. Her voice shakes, and Padmé’s heart twists.

It must seem so simple, for her. Naboo elects children because they believe them to be purer, less greedy. But they forget that a child is still a child no matter how many titles you give them. Apailana has been lucky. Like Padmé, she’s spent most of her life in politics. But that doesn’t always mean that she understands things. Not yet.

“You don’t need to. You are powerful, and that makes you a threat. Whether you fight or not, the Emperor will not leave Naboo in peace. Our planet is his mother-world, but that will not protect us for long,” Padmé says, her voice equally soft. She had to make a decision like this once. Leave her people at the mercy of the Trade Federation, or stay with them, and risk her life? Even months after her people were freed, that decision had laid with her like shackles.

“He’s not that stupid,” Apailana says, her hands shaking as she picks up her glass and drinks the last final drops.

“I agree,” Padmé says. It’s a difficult decision, one she can’t imagine making when she was twelve. “Most likely, Naboo will be held up as a beacon of art and science. The Empire will maintain a strong presence. You will become a puppet state, and the Emperor will not hesitate to silence any Nabooian who speaks out against him.”

“It is better than a war. We suffered long enough during the last one,” Apailana says, placing her cup on the glass table. The Queen gathers her robes and stands up. Melle’s gaze follows her as she does.

“Queen Apailana—”

“Senator Amidala. I wish you good fortune in your noble cause, but I cannot help you. My first duty is to my people. And if I join you, the Empire will harm them. That is something I will not risk. Goodbye.”

As Apailana walks out of the room, Padmé wishes she had the heart to be mad at her. 

* * *

Captain Thyld is a small, pinched man who speaks in an exaggerated Coruscanti accent, to the point where Anakin thinks he’s faking it for the first half of his introduction.

As soon as he stepped off the shuttle onto Kashyyyk, Thyld was waiting, with lines of troopers leading the way to the refinery’s entrance. Anakin shuffled down, his armour suddenly feeling clunky, and stopped in front of the shorter man. With a sharp smile, Thyld trills, “Welcome, Lord Vader! I hope you’ll be most pleased by the work we’re doing here, as you’ll find it conducive to a strong military and an even stronger Empire. I am Captain Thyld, and I’m here to oversee the refinery on Kashyyyk. If you’ll follow me.”

So Anakin did. And by the _Force,_ was Thyld annoying. As they headed into the actual refinery, Thyld’s speech grew more and more grating. Like the cry of a krayt dragon. Anakin had barely started to pay attention after a few minutes of Thyld’s speech, and then he had started to ignore it.

As they walk through the refinery, a low keen grows louder and louder. Anakin ignores it at first, assuming it’s just the sound of the dozens of machines working, but soon, it morphs into something entirely different. 

Anakin hasn’t met many Wookiees in his life, but their language is distinct enough for him to recognize it, even over the hum of the machinery. He slows, and Thyld pauses in his long explanation of the refinery to turn and give Anakin a plastic smile. “Is everything alright, my lord?”

“What is that?” Anakin says, searching for the source of the sound. They’re in pain, that much is clear, and if Anakin can stop it, he will. 

“The Wookiees?”

“Yes.” 

Thyld laughs, his face going red as he does. “Those are only the slaves, Lord Vader. They are of little concern.”

“Slaves?” Anakin says. On his tongue, the word feels wrong. Dirty. It sends a deep shiver through his body, and he can almost feel the sting of the whip on his back. The Empire doesn’t keep slaves. Other than him, at least.

“Yes,” Thyld says. “To expand the refinery. Not the best workers, but they’re free.”

For the rest of the explanation, Anakin is silent. He follows Thyld, like a giant black shadow tailing the man as he heads down the corridors. Slaves. The Empire is using slaves. Sidious knows Anakin’s sensitivity in that area, he knows Anakin used to be a slave, and that’s why the conniving fucker sent Anakin here, to piss him off, and fuck everything because it’s working.

How could he not be angry? Slavery was the worst crime imaginable, one the Republic had condemned, and here Sidious stood, blatantly promoting in one of the most valuable planets in the galaxy. And he had sent Anakin here to bathe in that pain, to let it fuel him.

“And they’re compliant?” Anakin asks, hissing the words out. A revolt is good. It means one less win for the Empire and no more fucking slaves. If they’re compliant, then that’s even worse.

“Well, we have our methods,” Thyld jokes. He straightens up, the wrinkles on his grey Imperial uniform smoothing out as he does. “For the most part, yes. There are a few rebels here and there, but those are dealt with.”

Anakin nods, hating the way his stomach turns at Thyld’s words. He’s not nine years old anymore, Watto doesn’t own him. 

Sidious does.

“At the refinery, we work to change sap from Wroshyr trees into oil and fuel, which is used to power Star Destroyers and most military equipment. I am overseeing the project, which is being headed by Dr. Evumi Dann. He’s a true revolutionary, came all the way from Naboo to help us. I’m sure you’ll find his work rather satisfactory,” Thyld squawks while he leads Anakin down a series of metal hallways. The left wall of the hallway is knocked out, with vertical poles lining its sides and a long slab of metal, running parallel to the ground, mounted on the poles. A railing, Anakin guesses. 

They’re a few floors up. While Anakin walks, he can see the towering Wroshyr trees of Kashyyyk as they scrape the sky, their limbs reaching up to the clouds. His eyes follow the trees down, and he’s greeted by the sight of mud-coloured liquid—sap, he guesses—being churned by rotating blades. Clone troopers guard the refinery, carrying standard blasters and wearing white plastoid armour. 

If only he could smell the fresh air, see Kashyyyk for himself. His helmet is still so limiting, and while he’s slowly breaking in the suit, it still rubs his skin red if he wears it for too long. Anakin wears his own custom set of blacks under it. They’re skintight, and a bit more advanced than the blacks troopers wear. Of course, he has his own set of loose-fitting robes on his Star Destroyer for sleeping, but those are plain, single-layered, and fucking black. Though, he guesses it doesn’t matter whether or not they’re black. It’s not like anyone else is going to see him, not with Cody and Rex away on Imperial Centre doing whatever the fuck.

In comparison to his suit, Thyld’s pressed Imperial uniform looks like paradise. Crisp grey lines, thick material, and an air of dignity. Of course, Thyld’s patchy beard and red face take away any of the elegance the uniform might’ve had. 

Not that Anakin would’ve looked any better. The longer he spends in the suit, the paler he gets. He’d probably look like a walking ghost in the Imperial uniform. 

Thyld stops in front of a sealed blast door, and presses on the keypad next to it with thick fingers. He waits a few seconds, and then the door slides open. A stick-thin man, with heavy yellow gloves clutched in his hands, stands in the doorway. He waves at Thyld, who smiles tensely at him. 

“Lord Vader, this is Dr. Dann. He’s working on making the refinery process more effective,” Thyld explains. Dann raises a hand in greeting before he turns back to what Anakin guesses is his lab. Unlike the hallways they were just in, it’s completely sealed. That explains the blast doors. 

Stark white walls make everything in the room seem brighter, along with a couple of painted panels and knickknacks around the lab. It’s clean but lived in. Dann is a man dedicated to his work. Transperisteel tubes carry sap around the lab. Anakin’s technological knowledge is geared mostly towards electronics and ships, not whatever Dann is doing, but he still recognizes several components. Were they looted from starfighters? Dann’s work is experimental, after all.

“Thank you, Lord Vader. Captain Thyld has mentioned you.”

Anakin’s gaze shifts from the scientist in front of him to the officer, “Has he?”

“At length,” Dann replies dryly. He holds out his empty hand, the other clutching his gloves. “Evumi Dann.”

Anakin smiles under his mask and shakes the scientist’s hand. Most people just sweat nervously when he gets close to him. Dann—no, Evumi—seems perfectly at ease with him. Better yet, he treats Anakin like an actual person instead of a faceless monster.

Already, Anakin has decided that he likes Evumi.

“Dr. Dann is helping us further refine our sap so that we can get more out of it. More fuel, more oil, more profit,” Thyld chuckles forcefully. Dann nods. Something on Thyld’s hip buzzes, and he pulls out his comlink. The voice on the other end is too garbled for Anakin to understand, but it sounds urgent. With a forced smile, Thyld looks at Anakin.

“I’m very sorry, my lord, but there’s an incident in the Wookiee quarters. We can continue our tour later.”

Bile rises in Anakin’s throat. An incident in the slave quarters, where Thyld would probably go fucking beat them like they were nothing like they were fucking property—which they _are._

“I’m sure I can explain everything to Lord Vader myself,” Evumi offers. Thyld raises a thin eyebrow. 

“Dann,” he says condescendingly. Evumi shrugs. His brown hair is carefully groomed backwards, and a set of goggles hangs around his neck. 

“I’ll be fine, Captain Thyld. Please. Your call sounded urgent.”

Thyld glances at his comlink before he sighs. “Lord Vader? Is that acceptable?”

“Yes. That will be all, Captain,” Anakin says, raising a hand to dismiss the inferior officer. For the Wookiee’s sake, he prays Thyld is in a merciful mood. Thyld shoots a pointed glance at Evumi before trotting out of the lab. Evumi seals the blast doors again and cracks his knuckles. He pulls his round goggles over his eyes.

“Have you ever been to a sap refinery before?” Evumi says. Anakin turns to him and shakes his head. He’s probably fought at one before, or bombed one, but never been to one formally.

“You’re lucky, then,” the scientists snorts, turning to his lab and fiddling with a sample bit of sap. It looks like molten lava, bright red and slightly bubbling. It looks like there’s a burner underneath the sap, which does explain the bright red colour.

Anakin cocks his head at Evumi’s remark. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I love my work, don’t get me wrong, but it can get boring,” Evumi says, dropping a small bit of liquid on the sap. “And it’s not like I enjoy being around the Wookiees. My lord.”

“You don’t like the slaves,” Anakin clarifies. That’s fair. It’s not like Anakin enjoys being around the slaves either. 

“I-I love the Empire. And if slaves are the way the Empire functions, then I suppose the slaves are fine,” Evumi pauses in his work, and if he wasn’t wearing his goggles, Anakin is sure he’d be able to watch the scientist’s eyes widen in fear. Sidious rules through fear. Evumi has probably seen a fair amount of his colleagues murdered for speaking out against the Empire. His words are a discordant note in the Force, a poorly told lie. He has as much love for the Empire as Anakin does.

“I see,” Anakin says.

A muffled cry comes up from below, and Anakin looks down at the white floors as if he’ll be able to see through them. Wookiees.

“They sound like they’re in pain,” he whispers, his vocoder picking up on the words and amplifying them. He knows what those beatings are like. He still has scars from his first few. On foggy Coruscant nights, when he was home from the war, and Padmé was home from the Senate, she would run her hands over them and kiss the corner of his mouth, and tell him it was okay. 

“They are, my lord. Thyld is dealing with them,” Evumi says. Anakin’s mind is still back with Padmé, with his angel, and he responds to Evumi a few seconds too late to be normal.

“And I suppose that means he’s beating them?” Anakin asks dryly.

“How did you guess?” Evumi chuckles half-heartedly, before, as an afterthought, he adds, “M-my lord.”

Anakin shrugs. He was a slave long enough to know the sound of a master disciplining his slave. “Slavers are the same, Hutt or Imperial.”

“You’d compare the Empire to the Hutts?” Evumi pokes at the sap, which has gone from bright red to dull blue.

“Not directly. but slavery is slavery.”

“I see.”

Anakin shuffles, poking at the ground with his black-clad foot. He should be going down there, helping the Wookiees, the way he had longed to do on Zygerria, on Tatooine, but he can’t, and that’s what hurts the most. Sidious will know, and Sidious is getting closer and closer to snapping. 

But it could be worth it. The lives of dozens of Wookiees, against his own. . .

He shoves that away, ignoring the flush of shame that rises in his cheeks, and asks Evumi, “Are you making progress? With your research?”

“A bit. Perhaps not as much as I’d like—I’ve figured out a different way to refine the sap that retains more, at least in theory, but the mechanics of it are all wonky. The humidity in the refinery would have to be temperature controlled to prevent the sap from rehydrating, which I don’t even think is possible in a lot of the refinery, and the temperatures have to be below freezing, and I don’t even think humans can work in those conditions—”

“You have Wookiees, remember?” Anakin points out, skin rippling at the thought of the whip. He doesn’t want to endorse slavery, he shouldn’t, but he has to. 

“Oh, good point,” Evumi mutters. 

Anakin’s comlink buzzes, and he checks it. There’s not an actual message, merely just a reminder. Fuck. He forgot about that entirely. He could just ignore it, so he doesn’t have to deal with that cunt, but he can’t stay here any longer. Not when the cries of Wookiees still echo around the building. 

“Excuse me, I-I have to deal with this now,” Anakin says, turning out of the room and opening the door with a flick of his hand.

Evumi calls after him, “Oh. Of course. I’ll, uh, I’ll be here.”

Anakin storms through the hallways, biting his lip to distract himself from the shrieks of the Wookiees. They’re in pain, he should stop them, but he can’t, he can’t do anything, because Sidious will know and Sidious will kill him, and then he won’t be able to see Ahsoka ever again.

He pulls at the bond as he heads down the landing pad and into the shuttle. He’s still not sure why it snapped, though it could just be that they’re both shielding so hard that they can’t feel each other—which seems unlikely, but it’s better than the alternative. He’d verified with Rex a thousand times over that she’s alive, she’s breathing, and she thinks he’s dead.

As the shuttle takes off, he wishes she knew where he was. Or that he knew where she was. But Anakin buries those wishes under a thick layer of anger (which, after the refinery, he doesn’t have to fake) as he steps onto the _Devastator._ From the hangar, it’s a quick turbolift ride up to his quarters, where the fuzzy blue hologram of a certain inquisitor kneels.

Third Sister’s uniform is a bit looser than he remembers, her bones a bit more prominent, but he guesses that’s to be expected. 

They’d intercepted her distress call a few weeks after she went missing, along with another Inquisitor. The pair was stationed over Eriadu, looking for a group of younglings Third Sister had originally escaped with. She and the other Inquisitor had taken two of the Empire’s newest prototype ships, the TIE fighters, and given chase to a corvette that had slipped through the blockade. Now, she has to explain herself.

“Third Sister,” he says.

“Lord Vader. I-I can explain everything, I promise.”

“I don’t want excuses, Inquisitor,” Anakin says, his voice dangerously cold. She fucked up with Rex, and now she’s fucked up with a group of Jedi younglings and gotten a fellow Inquisitor killed. By Anakin’s standards, those are both good things, but by Darth Vader’s standards, those are offences of the highest degree.

“I’m not here to give any,” Third Sister says, her voice shaking. The hologram flickers and her kneeling form fizzles out for a few seconds.

Anakin paces around the hologram, his arms crossed over his chest. The _Devastator_ hovers over Kashyyyk, and a tapestry of stars lays just beyond the viewport. “How did they escape? They were younglings. Barely trained.”

“There were three padawans,” Third Sister protests, her voice raspy after days of disuse. She takes a deep breath, and says, “Samael Dhyzu, Caleb Dume, and Ahsoka Tano.”

“Ahsoka Tano?” Anakin’s heart drops, and he stops his circling. If Third Sister had touched her, if she had killed _his padawan_ ,Anakin couldn’t let her live. “Where are they now?”

When Third Sister responds, she sounds like she’s on the verge of tears. “The younglings escaped, my lord.”

“Did you kill the padawans?”

Third Sister doesn’t respond, her head still bowed down. 

“Did you kill them?” Anakin screams, dropping his shields for a moment. Even across the galaxy, even through the hologram, Third Sister’s fear hits him, strong and bitter and wonderfully powerful. Good. She should be fucking terrified.

“No, my lord.”

Anakin stops. They’re fine. Ahsoka, his sister, his daughter, his padawan, is fine. She’s helped a group of surviving Jedi off of wherever the fuck Third Sister was, and now Third Sister is at his mercy, entirely. 

She had to have fought Ahsoka. Ahsoka would’ve defeated her easily, but she hadn’t killed her. She was good like that. As Darth Vader, Lord of the Sith, Anakin has every right to kill Third Sister. She’s not in front of him, so that’s not an option, but he can send her back to Imperial Centre, to the Inquisitorius, and leave her there. After Rex’s escape, she spent a week and a bit there, training. He can use that excuse again. 

In Padmé’s words, Third Sister is a sycophant. She wants power, a place in the hierarchy, and Anakin relishes in taking that away from her. “You require more training, Inquisitor.”

“What?” 

“You’re going back to the Inquisitorius.” 

“Lord Vader, _please_ . I can do this, I promise, I-I’m closing in on the location of a rebel ba—” Third Sister begs, her voice sounding like an out of tune hallikset. 

“I don’t care, Inquisitor,” Anakin says, revelling in the way her body shakes as Third Sister cries. She hurt Ahsoka, tried to kill Rex, she deserves any punishment the Grand Inquisitor will give her.

“Please, I’ll be better, I can do this, please. Please.” Third Sister cries, her arms shaking as she kneels. Through her sleek mask, he can’t see her expression, but he can feel it as she breaks. Her mind runs on a constant loop of hatred, and anger, and pure, primal fear. The dark side.

“You will go back to Imperial Centre. You will train. And if you fail again, I will kill you.”

The hologram shuts off just as Third Sister collapses to the ground, her forearms holding herself up, like a house of cards breaking down. Good. She had been nothing but a nuisance. 

Anakin sighs, pulling off his helmet and taking a deep breath. He hasn’t slept in what feels like forever—not that he sleeps well anymore—and now seems like a good enough time as ever. His hair is matted to his forehead, and he pushes it out of his way as he pulls out the armour plates in his suit. Anakin places them on the armour stand he has in the corner of the room (which he finds tacky, but it’d been built into the ground) and walks into his refresher. He calls a pair of pants and a loose shirt into his hand and tosses it onto the fresher counter.

His blacks crumple to the ground as he strips, and turns on the shower. The water runs over his burning hot skin, and he closes his eyes as it drips down his face. Within a few seconds, steam forms. He lets it. Why bother turning on the fan at this point? Besides, he had been raised on Tatooine: heat can’t bother him anymore.

After a few minutes of letting the warm water run over his aching muscles, Anakin steps out. He ruffles his hair with a coarse towel and dries himself off. The only garments he has are multiple identical pairs of loose black pants and a thin black shirt, which, luckily, comes with both long-sleeved and short-sleeved variants. Sidious could give him that, at least.

Steam rises from the refresher when he shoves the door open, still tugging on his shirt. He leaves his blacks on the refresher floor. There’s time to clean it up later. Anakin crosses the room and rolls into his bed, sinking into his mattress. He pulls the covers over himself and turns off the lights with a pull with the Force. 

He closes his eyes, relishes in the soft fabric, and drifts off.

* * *

The soft grass of the meadow tickles his cheek, and Anakin smiles. Naboo’s sky is clear, the sound of waterfalls hums in the background, and he can breathe. Both Obi-Wan and Ahsoka’s presences hover at the edge of his consciousness, along with two warm new ones, powerful in the Force and intertwined with him.

Padmé lays next to him, her hands folded over her stomach. She watches the clouds as they pass, and he watches her. The delicate curve of her nose, her bright eyes, her calm expression. She is here. Sidious is gone.

Anakin reaches out a hand, and he brushes the apple of her cheek. Padmé catches his hand and turns her head to look at him. She smiles, but there’s a depth in her eyes that makes him frown. “Something wrong, love?”

He knows what’s wrong; she’s dead, he’s serving a Sith lord, and they will never see each other again. Except in dreams, like this one, which Anakin knows aren’t real. But he can pretend. 

“No,” Padmé whispers, her voice catching as she brushes a piece of hair out of his eyes. “Everything is fine, Ani.”

“Okay,” he says, leaning into her touch. 

The world turns over, and then, instead of being on Naboo, in the fields, they’re standing on her balcony, looking over Coruscant. The lights inside of the Jedi Temple are bright, burning with pure unadulterated light. Anakin reaches for it and flinches back when it burns him. 

Padmé leans into his chest, pressing her cheek against his heartbeat. Her eyes are wide and brimming with tears. Perhaps she knows she’s dead. Perhaps she knows their child is dead. 

He presses a light kiss to her brown curls, her lilac shampoo flooding his senses, “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Padmé chokes out, blinking. A small tear slips down her face. Anakin frowns and pulls her closer to him. He rests his head on hers, murmuring softly to her as she begins to cry in his arms. Slowly, he rocks back and forth.

_You’re dreaming, Anakin._

_Wake up._

I don’t want to, he thinks. He could stay here, on Coruscant, with his angel, forever. He still wears his Jedi robes, and she still wears her senatorial dress, but he can ignore that. Everything is perfect, here. She’s alive. That’s better than the present.

“I love you, Ani,” Padmé whispers, repeating it over and over as she cries into him. Padmé doesn’t cry often, and he’s not entirely sure how to help—Jedi don’t cry very often either—so he holds her. He holds her as she shakes, her violent sobs rocking through her tiny body. 

“I love you too, angel.”

Padmé’s fists ball in his robes. “Don’t leave me. Promise me. Promise me you won’t leave.”

The image of his angel, her face red as she cried, the sound of a child crying echoing in the background drifts across Anakin consciousness, and he bites back the sting it brings. He had known she would die, and he had chosen the Jedi over her. He had been selfish, he had been stupid, and she had died because of him. The world could use her more than it could use him. 

“I promise you. I won’t leave you.”

As soon as Anakin wakes, the dream slips away like sand between his fingers. He is left with the faint memory of lilac shampoo, and that alone is enough for him to want to sob.

But he ignores it in favour of his buzzing comlink. His mech-hand scrabbles on his nightstand before he latches onto it and raises it to his mouth. 

“What?” he asks, his voice too muddled by sleep to be recognizable. There’s a moment of silence on the other end before an ensign responds.

“There’s been a revolt in the refinery, Lord Vader. Thyld is requesting your help.”

Anakin drops his comlink and groans, swinging his legs out of bed. Good for the Wookiees. Using one hand to throw his covers off, and the other to call a new pair of blacks to him, Anakin prepares for a fight.

* * *

Right when he steps inside, the refinery goes up in flames. None of it touches him, but it does make him shake for a few seconds. The cries of the Wookiees echo through the crumbling factory, but this time their shouts are filled with excitement instead of pain. Anakin clutches his lightsaber, stalking through the hallways. Though he only got a few hours of sleep, meaning it’s still day on Kashyyyk, he has more energy than he has in months.

He doesn’t want to kill any clones if he can help it, but he doesn’t want to kill any Wookiees either. If things go according to plan—which they never do—he’ll be able to avoid hurting anybody. Everything will be fine, it has to be fine, because if Anakin has to kill a slave—

Flames rip by him as a piece of debris tears through the air, the Force screaming a warning as it does. Anakin dodges, the suit moving with him. Finally, it’s working the way it’s meant to. A Wookiee with dark brown fur screams at him, baring its teeth as it does. The Wookiee, still with a shock collar around its neck, runs towards him. The ground shakes as it does, and Anakin ducks as it swings a meaty paw at him. 

He kicks it in its knee, and the Wookiee, which towers above him by a couple of feet, collapses. Anakin uses the hilt of his lightsaber and slams it against the Wookiee’s skull. It goes limp, and he takes a few steps back before he calls on the Force and lifts the Wookiee. 

Outside, the fire and metal all dims to background noise as he focuses on the Wookiee’s pulse, and pushes it out one of many holes in the refinery wall. With a few pushes at its mind, it stays unconscious. Anakin bites his cheek as he lowers it to the ground, letting the Force burn through him like a lit match. It fills his veins with power. The Wookiee is a few feet from the ground, when that thing, that darkness, creeps at the edges of his consciousness. Anakin’s concentration is broken, and he drops the Wookiee the last few feet.

By the will of the Force, it’s still alive. It landed on a muddy hill, where the clone troopers won’t find it. It’ll be free, for a little bit at least. Anakin opens his eyes to a burning hallway and remembers why he’s here. Thyld asked him to look for Evumi, who had been in his lab when the revolt started. Anakin agreed. The Nabooian doctor seems genuinely good, and he had a notable distaste for slavery that Anakin admired. 

The blast doors, still sealed, lay just a few feet away from him. With a few long strides, Anakin reaches the doors. Scattered debris almost trips him up, but he steps over it. The longer he stays in the hallway, the harder it becomes to breathe. His mask has a built-in ventilation system, but it’s hard to ventilate anything when there’s no oxygen in the air around him. Anakin huffs and slams a fist on the keypad. Is there a code that he’s supposed to use? Something? Thyld hadn’t been smart enough to tell him, being the idiot that he is. 

He digs deep, into the well of power within him, and forces the blast door open. The longer he stays here, the more dangerous it is for both him and Evumi. With a long groan, the doors slide open. Metal crumples, and he notes the doors will probably have to be replaced. Though, most of the refinery will probably have to be replaced.

Anakin steps into the lab and waves a hand in front of his face to clear away the thick smoke. It covers the lab, drifting out through a large hole ripped in the wall. Kashyyyk’s lake blue sky stares back through the hole, and Anakin frowns. 

The sky looks so much like Naboo, and he feels like he was just there, with Padmé, talking about. . . what had they been talking about? Something important, surely?

“Stop.”

Anakin freezes and drops into the Force. A focused presence, just behind him, with the intent to kill.

“Dr. Evumi,” Anakin says, coughing a bit through the vocoder. He can’t fucking breathe. Evumi presses a blaster to the back of his helmet, nudging Anakin’s head a bit. “What are you doing?”

“You shouldn’t have come here, my lord,” Evumi says, hissing out the words. He spits the last part of the sentence, using Anakin’s title to mock him. 

“Evumi. What is going on?” Anakin says, keeping his voice level. His heart beats in his chest, a metronome to which he can compose his actions. This is far from the first time he’s had a blaster pressed against his head, and Anakin doubts it’ll be the last. 

Evumi had been perfectly conversational just a few hours earlier. And now, there’s a revolt, and Evumi is pressing a blaster against his head. Anakin clicks his tongue as it fits together.

“The Wookiees,” he says.

“The Wookiees.”

“You’re helping them escape,” Anakin states plainly, holding his hands in the air as he does. Evumi pokes the back of his head with the blaster. 

“You’re helping the Empire enslave them,” Evumi spits. His anger is so visceral in the Force, and Anakin shivers as it rolls off the scientist in waves.

He flicks one of his fingers, weaving the Force around it. Anakin’s standard-issue comlink is mounted on his other arm, and he can mute it so they hear him but he doesn’t hear them. Once they hear a few seconds of the conversation he's having with Evumi, they’ll come to get him. 

Not that Anakin really wants Evumi to be captured. If Anakin was a better man, he’d been helping the Wookies escape. Anakin bends his finger a bit, his other hand still clasping the hilt of his lightsaber. “For the record, I’ve been against slavery since I was a child.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Evumi hisses. Slowly, like a loth cat circling its prey, Evumi moves from behind him to in front of him, keeping the blaster on his helmet the entire time.

“I was born into slavery,” Anakin whispers, pressing down on his comlink. It buzzes against his gloved hand, but the scientist doesn’t notice. So much for being observational. 

“Liar.”

“On Tatooine. I was sold from master to master, and beat if I asked too many questions,” he continues. Bringing it up makes his back ache anew, almost as if the blood from the wounds still runs down his spine. 

Right now, Anakin is on the side of the master. He holds the whip, he beats the slave. What would his mother think if she saw him right now? What would she think of any of this? He’d considered slavery the galaxy’s greatest evil for years, and now he’s defending it. His chest burns, from the smoke or the anger, he doesn’t now.

“Shut up!” Evumi yells, pressing the barrel of the blaster against the shiny plastoid forehead of Anakin’s helmet. He thinks Anakin is lying, and he doesn’t blame him. Around them, the lab crumbles. The tubes holding the sap break, sending the viscous liquid slithering down the walls until it’s heated red by the flames. 

The steady march of his stormtroopers—the rest of the 501st, while Cody and Rex are on leave—head down the hallway, and Evumi’s head turns. Anakin jams his knee up into the scientist’s bony chest and punches him between his legs. 

Evumi’s blaster falls out of his hand, and Anakin pushes it away before he can grab it. Evumi scrambles backwards, hissing when his hand brushes up against a string of burning hot sap. Anakin stalks over to him. He had a noble cause. If Anakin can do anything about it, he’ll make sure Evumi is at least comfortable in whatever prison the Empire sends him to. If he makes it to a prison. 

“Fuck you,” Evumi spits as Anakin hauls him up by the front of his lab coat, which is smeared with sap and blood, “Whoever fucking kills you, I’ll send them my life savings.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Anakin murmurs as the stormtroopers file through the room. They grab Evumi from Anakin’s hands, and he glances at Anakin as they haul him through the burning lab and out of the blast doors.

A shiver runs through him as Evumi’s glare burns into him, with the same hatred Anakin once saw on the faces of so many slaves. Every time, those slaves had been looking at their master.Anakin prays most of the Wookiees made it out safely. He should’ve helped them, should’ve done something, but he had been compliant.

He is as much as a slave as they are.

* * *

A few hours before he’s supposed to leave for Imperial Centre, Thyld calls him back to the refinery. Anakin knows he’s not at the beck and call of a mere officer, but he indulges the man. Hopefully, it’s good news. After the incident with Evumi, Anakin needs it.

He steps up into one of the few undamaged areas of the refinery. Its atrium, used for officer recreation, was barely damaged in the revolt. It’s an open area, with a small garden lining the edges. The roof is wide open but protected by a ray shield. It’s nice.

“Captain Thyld,” Anakin says, watching as the man snaps to attention. He waves a hand dismissively, and the captain relaxes. A proud smile spreads across his face and Thyld’s presence flares. 

“Lord Vader.”

“Why have you called me?”

“We made an addition to the garden,” Thyld says. Some of the officers snicker behind him, and Thyld himself looks like he’s trying to hold in laughter. 

Anakin frowns. Are they mocking him? “Get to the point, Captain.”

Thyld points and Anakin’s heart stops.

Among the flowers and trees, heads stare back at him. Mounted on iron sticks and shoved into the ground with their eyes popping out. Their eyes are wide, mouths contorted in pain. A too familiar brown-haired head stares back at him, with long gashes carved through his face. Slave-fucker, written in messy Aurebesh across his forehead.

Dr. Evumi Dann. And next to him, the decapitated heads of several dozen Wookies. Thyld laughs behind him, and Anakin turns to him slowly.

“Humorous, yes?” Thyld chuckles. Anakin raises his hand, and Thyld’s hands fly to his neck. How dare he? Those Wookiees had built his precious refinery, done his work, and Thyld had killed them and then displayed them like they were nothing but common trash. His anger cracks though him, channelling itself into the tight grip around Thyld’s neck. His face is turning impossibly red, and tears leak out of the corners of his eyes. 

“P-Pl. . . ple. . .” Thyld stammers, spit dribbling his mouth. Deep power floods Anakin, and he bathes in the waves of terror falling off of each Imperial officer. Fuck them. Fuck Thyld. If he wanted to act like he was so above slaves, Anakin would show him what it was like to be one. 

He’ll show him the terror, the fear, 

Thyld’s neck cracks and his eyes pop out of his skull as Anakin squeezes. He drops his arm and stares blankly at Thyld’s dead body. Good. One less piece of slaver scum in the universe. Sidious might chide him for it, but Thyld is—was, he thinks with pleasure—a minor imperial officer. He doesn’t care if he punishes him for killing Thyld. Every moment he spent choking the life out of him had been worth it, if only for the undeniable thrum of power he had felt. 

Anakin looks up at the rest of the Imperial officers, letting some of his anger trickle out through his shields and fill the room. He jerks his head towards the heads. “Bury them in a graveyard.”

He walks up to Thyld’s dead body and nudges it with a foot. “Better clean him up, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE DON'T KILL ME FOR POSTING THIS LATE
> 
> i know it's been about four or five days since the last update, but, in my defense, this chapter clocks in around 12k. anxiety has been kicking my ass recently, and my newly fucked up sleep schedule means i'm only awake for like eight hours a day (yay, depression naps !!)
> 
> that being said, i am very excited for the next chapter >:) so it should be up soonish. on july tenth, my family are travelling to B.C. for vacation, and staying there for a week and a bit. i'm bringing my laptop along, and i'm planning on writing a lot while i'm there (which my family is fine with). additionally, it's an eight hour drive so i'm sure i'll be able to get a chapter or so done while my parents drive. 
> 
> also, sorry for so much third sister shit, but she does have to play a minor role in this story, which is going to be fulfilled by next chapter. don't worry, you don't have to see much of her.
> 
> thank you for reading !! comments are extra appreciated rn because i haven't been having a good few days, but do not feel obligated to leave one !! also thank you guys for 350 (i think) kudos !! love you all <3
> 
> POSTED 02/07/2020


	14. A Wolf Among Sheep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin works with Bail Organa to block a bill. Queen Apailana makes her decision. Third Sister makes a grab for power within the Imperial military.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for general violence

Every bill that passes through the Senate is bogged down in seemingly unnecessary caveats. Anakin understands that loopholes in the law need to be minimized, but when said law is twenty thousand words long when ten thousand could suffice, he can’t help but find it pointless and meandering. 

Still, even with all the flowery language, he understands the gist of the bill. Extra funds towards the military after the fiasco on Eriadu—and the fact that Ahsoka’s antics prompted a whole bill makes Anakin a bit proud—to supposedly be used to hunt down Jedi. Which, knowing the state of the Inquisition, is probably necessary. That being said, the construction of the Death Star is progressing. As a part of Imperial High Commander and the Supreme Commander of the Empire’s military, Anakin gets briefing after briefing sent to his pad. The Moffs handle some of the briefings, but the more important ones—Jedi sighting, revolts, issues like that—are all sent to him. Including the updates on the Death Star. Its frame is being constructed, but the technology needed for the station is still in development. Development that has been going frighteningly fast.

Really, he should’ve expected that. Tarkin had told him about the Emperor’s personal interest in the project, and Anakin has seen the military budgets. An exorbitant amount of money has been directed towards the weapon by Sidious himself. And if this bill passes, even more of the Empire’s wealth will be devoted towards the project.

While some part of him is awed by the power of the project, it’s far too dangerous to risk it falling into Sidious’ hands. Anakin can only imagine what it would be like to command a station with that kind of power (he’d be able to wipe out Sidious with one well-placed blast, be able to watch whatever planet the fucker was on reduced to rubble in _seconds_ ) but in order to gain control of it he’d need to maneuver his way onto the Death Star in a series of political moves he didn’t quite understand how to make.

In theory, yes, he knew who he had to charm to get to the station. Sidious, first of all, Tarkin, Krennic, and a myriad of other Imperial scientists, but people aren’t that simple. Besides, he doesn’t have the patience for politics right now.

Pointless political squabbles would still be better than this, he thinks. Anakin shifts his weight from foot to foot, and tilts his head. Sidious’ crumpled form is hunched in his pod, while the whirring hover pods of the Senators buzz around him. Like always, the Senate rotunda is a flurry of activity. The Twi’lek Senator, Orn Free Taa, gestures wildly, his accented voice echoing through the room.

Anakin sits in his own personal pod—which Sidious commissioned for it, in case he ever took an interest in the Senate—alone. Taa’s voluminous sleeves sway as he gestures. If Anakin is following this debate correctly, and he’s sure he is, Taa is the leader of the proposition. He proposed the bill and his status within Sidious’ inner circle makes Anakin believe the Emperor probably had a hand in the creation of the bill. 

Taa finishes his speech with a self-satisfied smile, and his pod retreats to thunderous applause. From below Anakin’s pod, another rises.

Senator Organa, in a simple blue robe. No doubt leading the opposition. Anakin leans forwards as Organa steps up, clearing his throat before he begins to speak in a clear, authoritative tone.

“My fellow Senators,” he begins, the Senate falling quiet as he does. “When we were sworn into our seats, we took an oath. To the Empire, to the constitution, and, most importantly, to the people.”

Under his mask, Anakin raises an eyebrow. Bold. 

The Senators have no real power anymore. Sidious had at least kept up the ruse of democracy, and allowed to Senate to remain in place and vote on bills, but the Emperor has the power to veto any bill he wants to. Letting the Senators vote is just a formality.

After seeing what had happened to the Jedi, most of the Senators—the smart ones, at least—had shut up and followed Sidious. Bail Organa hasn’t.

“As the sole representative of your system, you all have a duty to protect—” Bail’s voice rises, anger threaded through every word, “—and serve your constituents to the very best of your ability.”

“Bill E-5890 directs more credits towards the military and slashes the budget for dozens of social programs that support our citizens. Millions of sentients around the Empire rely on these programs to live. Instead of focusing on the civilians we are sworn to protect, we are focusing on meaningless threats. The Inquisition is more than able to handle treasonous Jedi. Clone troops aren’t.”

Anakin’s chest bubbles with both laughter and pain. First Sister had been killed by a bounty hunter, Sixth Brother died on his first assignment, and Third Sister wasn’t even able to stop a clone from escaping. Yet the clones had killed dozens of Jedi when they stormed the Temple. Organa can’t be more incorrect.

“Allowing fifty trillion credits to go into the military when they could be used for the welfare of our _people_ is a disgrace to everything we, as Senators, have promised to stand for,” Organa says. 

Now it’s getting interesting. Senate sessions are mind-numbingly boring, mostly because Anakin can guess the result before it happens, but this one promises some kind of entertainment. An actual debate. Organa’s way with words is famed among politicians, and Padmé had lauded his talents more than once. 

For a moment, a ghost of her form appears in a pod across from his, and Anakin jerks up. When he realizes he can’t see her, his entire chest shatters. He’d give anything for her to be safe. For her and their child to live, even if it was under the Empire. Anakin can live with that. 

It would be simple like that. Padmé, their child, and him could’ve lived well under the Empire. Anakin has power—and he’ll endure Sidious’ punishments if it means he can be with her—and they’d be safe. The Empire is terrible, but fuck, he doesn’t care as long as she’s safe.

He misses her. 

Anakin stretches, his joints cracking as he does, and leans over the side of his pod. The thick metal of the senatorial pod scrapes against his suit.

“The credits used in this bill could be used to improve infrastructure, support our scientists, and make sure every Imperial citizen has what they need to survive, and yet Senator Taa moves to pour credits into the military,” Bail continues, his voice loud enough to be heard without a microphone. From Anakin’s position the senator is a small blue blur, but he hears Organa’s voice as if he were next to him.

“May I ask why the military needs those credits? The war is over. It’s been six months since the Confederacy of Independent Systems was defeated, and the Empire’s rule is uncontested. Funnelling more credits into the military will do nothing,” Organa takes a deep breath, and there’s scattered applause. His speech is impassioned, but it’s also against everything Sidious stands for. 

His master is calm, but after spending so much time around him, Anakin reads the tension in his shoulders easily. Organa is a powerful speaker, which makes him dangerous. 

Meaning he might be useful. 

“Do nothing?” Senator Taa’s heavy voice cuts through the air, and Anakin zeros in on the blue Twi’lek senator. “Senator Organa, a chain is only as strong as its weakest link.”

Taa is much closer to Anakin, so he catches the small smile Taa throws to the Emperor’s pod. “A strong military means our glorious Empire is protected from insurgents.”

Through the Force, Bail burns with righteous anger. “Our weakest link is our people, not our military. The heart of our wonderful Empire is the people, and while we have military parades, they are dying. Are we to stand by and let them perish? Or are we going to do our jobs?”

Bail has no love for the Empire—and Anakin doesn’t blame him—plus he’s worked with him before. If he can get Bail Organa on his side. . . 

“The credits are hardly going to military parades. The recent revolt on Eriadu proves the Jedi are still a threat.”

“And the Inquisitors are dealing with them.”

Most of them are incompetent, and Anakin wouldn’t trust them to capture younglings, but the Senators don’t know that. 

“We’ve barely met these Inquisitors, Senator Organa. Do not put so much blind faith in them. The Jedi nearly killed the Emperor once. They’ll try it again,” Senator Taa says, the folds of skin on his face jiggling as he does. Behind him stand two Twi’lek courtesans, dressed in tight jumpsuits matching the colour of their skin. 

“They will not get close enough to do so. There have been seven bill in the past six months to up the military’s budget and all of them have passed. Is that not enough? Do you need more, Senator Taa?”

“Defending the Empire is my number one priority, Organa,” Taa smiles, “What’s yours?”

Bail sets his jaw. “Ensuring the continuing prosperity of the Empire. We are safe; the only threat to our people is starvation. This bill is pointless and will only result in more pain and more suffering.”

Before Taa can get another word in, Bail continues.

“I urge all of my fellow Senators: remember the vow you took. Remember the people you swore to serve. They are your concern, not the military. This bill will not help anyone in the Empire except for the military elite. It must be voted down.”

“I concede my time,” Bail breathes, “Thank you.”

His pod withdraws and Anakin tilts his head. He does not stay for Sidious’ address, opting to head for Bail’s pod instead. He needs allies and though Bail will be reluctant, they have a common goal.

Bail wants to see the Empire overthrown and Anakin wants to see Sidious dead. After that, they can part ways. Bail can rebuild the Republic, and Anakin—

He’s not sure what he’ll do once Sidious is dead. Obi-Wan and Padmé are gone. Rex had sent a vague message about ‘taking care of things’, so for all Anakin knows he can be dead. But Ahsoka is alive and that’s what he’s clinging to. There’s something—someone—waiting for him when this is over.

Anakin reaches the lower levels of the Senate Rotunda just as Bail is leaving his pod. The Senator, his face slightly flushed after his speech, jumps as Anakin approaches. A few seconds too late he slips on his Senatorial mask. Anakin nods his head slightly, which is the closest thing he can get to a smile in this damn suit.

“Lord Vader,” Bail says, stepping aside as Senators flow out of the Rotunda. “I wasn’t aware you were back on Imperial Centre.”

“I like my privacy,” Anakin says, crossing his arms. “Quite the speech, Senator Organa.”

Bail flushes even more, and the Senator’s heart rate shoots up. “Thank you, Lord Vader.”

“You’re a good speaker, Senator.”

“Thank you.”

“But you’re reckless,” Anakin continues, his voice dropping as Senator Taa walks by, shooting a pointed glare at Organa. His courtesans follow him, trailing just behind the Senator as he heads down the halls. Anakin waits for the hallway to clear out a bit more before he says, “You shouldn’t speak so openly against the Empire. Especially not as a Senator.”

“I have nothing but love for the Empire.”

“Then that makes one of us.”

He shouldn’t be so blatant, but Sidious isn’t looking for loyalty to the Empire, he’s looking for loyalty to himself. Anakin can give him that even if he hates the Empire. Should his words get back to the Emperor, Anakin won’t be punished more than he already has.

Bail Organa’s eyebrows shoot up. Anakin keeps himself half immersed in the Force, probing for anyone coming through the hallway. 

“This bill is dangerous,” Anakin breathes. Bail glances around the hallway, which is mostly empty. A quick check with the Force confirms that there’s no one to interrupt them here.

Bail watches him carefully, his face a perfect portrait of neutrality. 

He’s a smart man. Anakin, as Lord Vader, has quickly grown to be the face of the military. While the clones remain a symbol of the Empire’s might, the same way they were when the Republic still existed, Anakin’s black helmet has become a common sight among the politicians. To have the military’s commander openly refuse funding is suspicious. Bail probably thinks he’s been caught helping Rebels, and this is little more than a trick. 

The lavish hallways around them absorb sound, and soften his tone when Bail finally speaks. 

“I don’t understand your meaning, Lord Vader.”

Anakin crosses his arms over his chest, and tilts his head. Bail understands perfectly—he’s just assumed Anakin is lying.

In a way, he is. More credits towards the military means more power for Anakin, so it’s not entirely a lost cause. Still, Bail doesn’t like it, and if Anakin can help out Bail in any way, he might just gain the man’s trust. Their brief dinner on Alderaan hadn’t endeared Bail to Anakin in the slightest. 

Besides, Anakin doesn’t even know what they’re going to do with more credits. Most of them had been moved towards weapons development from what he knew. Why they need new weapons, Anakin doesn’t understand. The clones’ blasters work just fine. New weapons, especially ones that cost fifty trillion credits, are—

“I mean this bill will do more harm than good,” Anakin hisses, his mind running through everything he remembers about Tarkin’s briefing. “Goodbye, Senator.”

Anakin storms away from Bail, moving through the Senate building with only muscle memory to guide him. They’re not developing weapons, they’re developing one weapon. Sidious’ pet project, the orbital battle station, the Death Star.

It’s too dangerous to let it be built. In the best case scenario, Anakin could try and seize control of the station, and turn it against Sidious, but that’ll never happen. He can’t let Sidious have that kind of power. 

Stopping this bill is just one way he might be able to rebel against his master.

* * *

Most nights, Senator Taa can be found in the highest level of his apartment on Coruscant, with several dozen bottles of top-shelf liquor and triple the amount of socialites.

This night is no different.

When Anakin steps into the room, he recognizes several influential Senators and high-ranking military officers, some of them still in their uniforms, and they recognize him. Amongst the brightly dressed Senators and courtesans, his monotone outfit is like a battle droid among clones. 

He walks down the steps into the room’s main pit, several of the Senators turning to look at him as he does. Their glances are just a bit too pointed, a bit too apprehensive. Anakin sighs, and shrinks in on himself a bit. To the best of his ability, he shields himself. 

Making a scene is just going to make this harder. Of course, it’s hard to blend in when you’re the commander of the Empire’s entire military. Apart from some of the military officers, Anakin has stayed out of politics as long as he could. He’s sure there are rumours about him—that he kills babies or something—but this marks his first public appearance.

The most he’s done so far is appear next to Sidious in his pod. Aside from Organa, not a single Senator has dealt with him directly. Over the months he’s gone to more than a few planets, such as Kashyyyk or Thabeska, to search for Jedi or kill bounty hunters Sidious is sick of, but very rarely has he met with any planetary leadership.

So he understands the apprehension surrounding him. The Senators can see the black hilt of his lightsaber, even with his cape billowing around him. While they don’t stop drinking, they part as he walks through the crowd.

All he needs is to get to Senator Taa. Taa has a tendency of drawing people to him, if only for his boisterous attitude and deep pockets. Anakin goes where it’s loudest, by the balcony. A gaggle of courtesans and sycophants surround the Senator, who turns as Anakin approaches, a glass of amber-coloured liquid in his hand.

A slow smile spreads across the Senator’s face as Anakin approaches and he waves those around him off. Anakin stops just in front of the Senator. His entourage swerves around Anakin, who lets down his shields both to monitor the Senator and let some of his power leak into the air around them.

“Lord Vader!” Taa smiles and raises his glass, his lekku jiggling as he does. Anakin inclines his head slightly, hoping it makes him look a bit let intimidating. Taa wipes his mouth, his sleeve catching on his crooked teeth. “I didn’t know you would be attending tonight.”

With the Twi’leki accent and the liquor, Taa is barely coherent. It takes Anakin a second to process his words, and three to respond. 

“If I’m being honest, Senator, I wasn’t planning on it,” Anakin says. Taa’s parties are open to most Imperial personnel and all Senators, along with most of Imperial Centre’s socialites. Still, he probably didn’t expect Anakin to show up.

“Oh?” Taa frowns slightly.

Anakin turns away from him and stares over the balcony. The open door behind him lets the sound of the party spill into the night air, drowning out the hum of the city. Anakin breathes deeply, his vocoder picking up on the sound. “Your speech in the Senate changed my mind.”

Taa’s skin flushes a deeper shade of blue. “I hold the military in high esteem, my lord. Its strength is my top priority.”

Softly, Anakin snorts. Taa’s greed is an open secret in the Senate. He serves himself first, Ryloth second, and the Empire third. Everyone knows that if you need him to back a bill, you simply need enough credits.

He’s a perfect example of the Republic’s corruption.

“I’m happy to hear that, Senator,” Anakin smiles, and turns away from the traffic below Taa’s balcony. Slowly, he leads Taa back into the crowded main room. 

The Twi’lek follows him, taking slow steps so he doesn’t fall. Upon seeing him with Taa most of the party-goers relax. There are some who shuffle away from Anakin but most of them seem to write off his presence as merely another strange thing to happen at the party.

Anakin stops just in front of the main table, which holds all manner of food and drink. Just as he had expected, Taa pours himself another drink and chugs it down. 

“Enjoying yourself, Senator?”

“Uh, y-yes, my lord,” Taa smiles, yelling to be heard over the crowd. 

Anakin nods. “Good.”

He deserves to have a good ending at the very least. Taa had been a respected Senator in some aspects, if only for his reliability. He is trusted to act in his own self-interest, and Anakin doubts that will ever change. It’s not like he’s going to have the time to, anyways. 

Taa gulps down another drink and licks his lips, a drunken haze filling his eyes as he does. Unbidden, his feelings float through the Force like a feather in the wind. Anakin doesn’t bother grabbing onto them; he knows what he’ll find, anyway. A drunken mishmash of greed and lecherous joy. 

The Senator wobbles, his drink spilling out of his glass to stain his purple velvet carpet, and Anakin moves to catch him, just in case. Luckily, the Senator catches himself, and sways a bit afterwards. 

“Maybe you’ve had a bit too much to drink, Senator,” Anakin suggests, yelling to be heard over the crowd. Force. Padmé never had parties like this, nor did any of the Senators he associated with.

Then again, Padmé had been a rarity among politicians. She was kind, genuine, and deeply cared about the people she served. When she was pregnant, he had hoped their child would take after her, have her generosity, her kindness.

Anakin lets out a long breath through his nose as Taa says, “Nonsense, Vader! You’ve simply had too little!”

Taa laughs and claps Anakin on the back, and his fingers twitch towards his lightsaber. For him, in the age of the Empire, most physical contact means pain.

When Taa goes for another drink, Anakin tenses. He sinks deeper into the Force, letting the buzz coming from everyone in the room lull him into a sort of meditation. 

The Senator swallows, his throat bobbing as he chugs a full glass of liquor, and Anakin tugs. Taa’s drink switches course from his stomach to his lungs, trickling down his throat to land in the wrong spot.

Taa stops and coughs, trying to dislodge the liquid from his lungs, but Anakin keeps it down.Droplets from Taa’s mouth splatter his mask. Anakin tightens his resolve to kill him there and then. 

“Excuse me,” Taa croaks out, his voice bubbling. A meaty hand clasps his drink tighter and Taa chugs more, and Anakin pulls that the wrong way as well.

The Senator wheezes, his chest heaving as he coughs and coughs and coughs. Some of those around him notice, casting worried glances at the Rylothian Senator.

“Are you alright, Senator?” Anakin asks while forcing the liquor down Taa’s lungs. His hands grasp at his blue throat, face turning navy blue. He rocks back and forth, chest heaving as he takes deep, gulping gasps.

“Someone call a medic!” 

“Is he alright?”

“Force, not this again.”

“Senator Taa!” A thin Twi’lek comes rushing out of the crowd. One of his courtesans, judging by her skintight clothing and highly pigmented red skin. Anakin steps backwards, carefully monitoring the Senator’s heartbeat. 

His bill will go towards funding the Death Star, Anakin is sure of it. Killing him will stop the bill’s proposition, robbing them of their leader, and potentially gain him an ally in Bail Organa. It’s worth the uproar it’ll cause.

Taa crumples to the floor, his thick robes folding underneath him. The courtesan’s hands pull apart his robes—in a very practiced way, Anakin’s mind notes with some amusement—and begin to start compressions on the Senator.

It won’t help him, Anakin thinks, stepping into the crowd. Dressed in their elaborate gowns, he sticks out. It doesn’t matter much, not when Anakin is silently and secretly forcing liquid down the Senator’s throat.

His pulse is growing weaker. Great blue arms thrash and beat at the carpet, and the crowd of socialites is still. Apart from a few screams and frenzied cries, they’re all fixated on Taa’s last moments.

When his heart stops, Taa chokes one last time before his arms drop, and his head lolls backwards. Tiny white eyes roll backwards and his mouth falls open.

Anakin steps forward, drawing himself up. A perfect picture of a military leader. “Call a medic.”

“We already did, my lord,” the red-skinned Twi’lek says. Her slim face is lined by a few tears, but other than that she seems entirely calm. A bit distraught about losing her only source of income maybe?

“Tell them Lord Vader is waiting,” Anakin answers, bending down to Taa’s level. 

Most people don’t know this but when someone dies all their muscles stop tensing. All of them. So while their arms might fall, and their legs might go limp, they’ll soil themselves. That’s a guarantee, one Anakin learned when he saw a master beat their slave to death when he was only a child, and Taa is no exception.

A gluttonous way to die, choking on alcohol, and one that matches Taa’s life perfectly. 

* * *

Queen Apailana is gracious enough to let Padmé stay at the palace for the next few weeks. It’s just as beautiful as she remembers, all flowers and pastel colours and filigreed railings. She finds a special kind of joy in it and the part of her that is still very much Queen Amidala rejoices in being home again.

The much larger part of her, Padmé Naberrie, is worried.

Obi-Wan hasn’t been responding to his comlink, but Ahsoka is. She’s assured Padmé that Obi-Wan is still alive—something about Force bonds—and he’s just lost his comlink. From what Padmé gathered from Ahsoka’s scrambled message, she’s met up with two Jedi Padawans and a group of exactly thirteen younglings, and have ran the blockade around Eriadu.

Before they could get past it, though, two fighters carrying Inquisitors attacked and then boarded the ship. Ahsoka killed one, and sent the other into deep space, but their corvette (Padmé doesn’t even want to know how they got it) hadn’t been able to maintain hyperspace for very long. Hundreds of thousands of miles away from Dantooine, it had dropped out of hyperspace. Ahsoka promised Padmé they were fine, they had enough food for the trip to Dantooine, and their weapons systems were still operational. 

No one was available to come and get them, as Master Unduli was still searching for lost Jedi, Obi-Wan was still dealing with Yoda, and Padmé was still on Naboo.

Padmé rubs her temples, trying to massage away the pain. Her room on Naboo is comfortable. Her meals are good. She feels some ounce of safety for the first time since the Purge. 

Still, her heart twists in her chest with every beat. It’s been too long since she was last on Dantooine—much longer than she had planned to be away. In her mind, she assumed Apailana would commit to Padmé’s cause immediately. Truly, it seemed like a no brainer. A democracy that, while corrupt, was able to grow and change according to the people it served or a tyrannical Empire ruled by one man and his dark apprentice.

Vader is another matter entirely, one Padmé barely wants to think about. From what the clone on Dantooine—Wolffe—told her, Vader had put a bounty out on Rex’s capture, only for Rex to immediately head to Imperial Centre to find Cody.

According to Ahsoka’s timeline, it’s been two and a half months since Rex’s last message, and while she’s been attempting to get through to him the entire time, he hasn’t responded. And the bounty had been pulled.

Sith are never easy to deal with. Dooku had proven that, and later, so had Sidious. Padmé shakes her head, as if to dislodge those thoughts, and stands from her position on her room’s soft couch.

The Queen had been kind enough to give her one of the more lavish rooms—in fact, one of her favourites during her own reign. Apailana has been more than accommodating, and Padmé doesn’t truly have a way to pay her back.

There’s even a balcony, which Padmé uses liberally. She steps through the glass doors and pulls her nightgown closer to her skin. Her hair cascades down her back and tickles her bare neck. 

This area of the palace is secluded. Years spent in this very palace tell her this is one of the only places free from any prying eyes, where she can take a moment to simply look out over the Nabooian skyline and breathe. 

Gentle waterfalls flow down sharp cliffs, drowning out the gentle buzz of Theed’s nightlife. Soft lights dot the city, reflecting back in the calm waters below. As wind slips through the city, the fluted grooves of the palace whistle. They form their own song as the wind trills through the palace’s many roofs and walls. Eons ago, before Naboo joined the Republic, parts of the palace had burned down. The Queen, her name long-forgotten, had her architects rebuild the palace bigger, grander. Carefully angled walls combined with gently sloped roofs create a song. The Queen may be forgotten, but her touch still remains. 

The song is a soft hum, one that warms Padmé to the bone, washes away all of the fear and worry she’s carried on her shoulders since she was fourteen. Once, Naboo had burned, the palace with it. Still, they survived, and they made something beautiful out of destruction. At her core, that is what Padmé wants more than anything. To see the Republic flourish, to become better than it ever was before the Empire. Something beautiful out of destruction.

Even deeper down, there is the niggling selfish desire to leave it all behind. To take Luke and Leia and raise them both on some peaceful faraway planet, away from the Empire and the Sith and anyone who might hurt them.

They must be so big by now. Luke would grow a bit quicker—he always has, in the past—but Leia would be the louder of the two, the more adamant. Luke’s downy hair had started to grow blonde when he was a few months old, and she sees so much of Anakin in him, but his temperament is so much like her. Leia is almost the opposite. In appearances, she’s practically a clone of Padmé but her stubbornness is all Anakin. 

Will they inherit his power? Padmé innate skill in debate, in the Senate, is something she can already see taking root in Leia, if only from the infant’s babbles. Anakin’s talents are less obvious. Padmé has never been very well-versed on the Force, as that knowledge was reserved for the Jedi, but she knows enough. Anakin was powerful and his children will inherit that power.

That’s what marks them as dangerous, but that’s why she’s doing this. Padmé doesn’t have a choice. Her children will not grow up on the run. They will not spend their life running from the Emperor.

Padmé pushes herself away from the balcony and steps back into her room. She shuts her dry eyes and wraps her nightclothes around herself. When she opens her eyes, they land on the wide double doors leading out of her room.

Technically, the only people who know she’s there are the handmaidens and the Queen. The handmaidens bring her food and the maids who clean her room don’t need to hear her. Going outside is a risk. If she’s seen and recognized, the Empire will be on the palace doors within seconds.

So she’ll be careful.

Padmé pushes the door open, glancing around the hallway for anyone. There are always guards, but they hardly look at her as she creeps out of her room and down the marble hallways. High arched ceilings greet her as Padmé weaves through the palace. Oil paintings adorn the walls, of Kings and Queens and old Nabooian gods, all painted in soft brushstrokes and rosy colours. 

Life always looks better in paintings. Padmé smiles as she recognizes some of the paintings, of how she had watched them when she was a queen.

The cool smell of the night air pulls her from her brief memory and Padmé follows it to the gardens. They lie in the atrium of the palace, protected from any unwanted guests. Barefoot, Padmé steps onto the spongy grass.

Night-time dew has gathered on the grass, and as she walks, her skin grows damp. Vines creep up the side of the palace walls, and large willow trees sprout from dark, fertile ground. On all sides, the garden is boxed in by the palace. Still, despite the bustle of palace life, the garden teems with serenity.

Padmé traces a unopened flower bud, cashmere petals like a lover’s touch against her skin, when a low sob echoes around the garden. She shoots up, making sure to stay quiet, and her hand flies to her side, where her blaster would normally be kept.

She doesn’t have it on her. Force. She’d always carried a blaster on her during her days in the Senate, but she had never been so quick to draw before all of this happened.

A sniffle comes from just around one of the rose bushes, so Padmé steps out from behind it as quietly as she can.

One of Queen Apailana’s handmaidens. Slight, her face still rounded from childhood. Dark hair falls down her back, obscuring her face. The handmaiden’s face rests in her knees as her body is wracked by sobs. Padmé sighs and trods closer to the handmaiden, making sure her footsteps are loud enough so as not to startle the girl.

She bends down to the girl’s level, and gives her a few moments to compose herself before she says, “Are you alright?”

“Queen Amidala?” the handmaiden sniffs, her voice hoarse. She flinches and then corrects herself, “ _Senator_ Amidala.”

“Just Padmé is fine, thank you.”

“Oh, of course. I-I’m sorry,” the handmaiden chokes out, her small fingers playing with her hair. Her eyes are slightly bloodshot and her skin looks like it’s been rubbed raw. Faint traces of makeup dot her skin. Padmé kneels, waiting for the handmaiden to tell her more, to move, to do something.

When her knees start to burn Padmé flops onto her side. The handmaiden chose a very good place to cry, up against a towering willow tree. Padmé scoots a bit backwards, until her back is pressed against the thick trunk and the handmaiden is curled next to her. 

“You know, I cried here several times.”

With still teary eyes, the handmaiden turns to look at her. “What?”

“After the invasion, there was a celebration parade,” Padmé smiles to herself as she remembers the cheers of her people, the confetti being thrown from the roofs. Her first success as Queen—and her first failure. “I was happy during the parade, but the second I got home and out of my makeup, I broke down crying in this very garden.”

One of the handmaiden’s brown eyes peeks out from behind a curtain of hair. “But. . .why? You did such a great job as Queen.”

There’s a hint of bitterness in that last sentence, and Padmé sighs. “It seems that way now, doesn’t it?”

“I was Queen for four years. I was hardly beloved during some of them. There were always people out to get me, whether they were children of Naboo or foreign Senators. I was popular amongst certain classes, yes, but it doesn’t mean my reign was easy,” Padmé explains. She had been beloved by her second term, but it had taken months of criticism and threats to get there. Her people were proud of her for saving them from the Trade Federation, but the social elite and iconoclasts had been less than pleased for the following year. She’d amended that by the end of her first term, but she had spent several months in a feverish state, frantically trying to fix her mistakes. Being Queen of an entire planet before she had been able to pilot a speeder had left a mark on her, and some days, Padmé finds herself regretting the years she spent in politics instead of growing up. The work she did was important, that’s not up for discussion, but some nights she wished she had a moment to be an actual person instead of a Queen, instead of a Senator. It’s painfully difficult, in a way very few can understand. 

“I understand,” the handmaiden says. 

Padmé studies the slope of her nose, the roundness of her cheeks, and asks, “What’s your name?”

“Melle.”

“You served me tea.”

That earns Padmé a coy smile from the girl, who says, through tears, “Yes.”

“What brought you out here, Melle?”

Melle’s face darkens again at that, and she bites the side of her cheek. Tentatively, Padmé reaches around and wraps an arm around her. Melle, to her surprise, leans into her. She’s small and it’s easy to forget her age when she’s carrying around a blaster and protecting a monarch. Melle looks to be the exact same age as the Queen—twelve, no older, no younger. 

“My cousin died,” Melle says, staring ahead blankly. Her eyes are still rimmed with tears.  On top of the stress of being a handmaiden, she now has to deal with her cousin’s death. Padmé frowns. 

Padmé rubs Melle’s silk covered shoulder, and nods. “I know. I lost someone very close to me a few months ago.”

“Does it get any better?” Melle turns to her suddenly, her brown eyes filled with a new type of desperation. “Does it hurt any less?”

Padmé looks down at the soft grass, smooths out her dress, and then says, “No. But it hurts a little less often. Sometimes, you think you’re fine, and then it hits you all over again. But over time, it happens less.”

Melle nods and leans into Padmé side. The low sound of wind sliding through the palace walls fills the garden with melancholy. Padmé is almost back on Varykino, with Anakin, still with his padawan braid, when things were both impossibly complicated and terribly simple. There was no war, no Separatists, just them and the lake. 

“It was the Empire,” Melle whispers.

“Me too.”

Melle’s tears slow as she gasps out into Padmé’s shoulder. “He didn’t do anything—he was helping, he worked for them, and th-they gutted him like an animal.”

“The Empire doesn’t need a reason,” Padmé murmurs. “They do it because no one will stop them. They do it because they can.”

Melle freezes, and draws up from Padmé’s side. “They enslaved Kashyyyk. The Wookiees.”

That news reached her days ago, through the grapevine. The Empire’s own citizens, enslaved in a sap refinery, all so the Empire could make more profit. Padmé nods and tries to ignore the kernel of her that wants to march to Palpatine’s door and tell him off. 

“I don’t understand why. The Wookiees didn’t do anything—they were peaceful.”

“The Empire doesn’t need a reason.”

Melle’s face sours even more, and crumples like a sheet of flimsi. Her tiny hands clutch at Padmé’s nightgown, and Padmé holds the young girl close. She is too young to be going through this, too young to be in this much pain. As the girl’s tears soak Padmé’s clothes, she whispers into her hair. Soft mutterings as she lets her cry into her stomach.

“They didn’t do anything.”

“I know.”

“It’s not fair, I-I should’ve done something, I—”

“There’s nothing you could’ve done, Melle.”

“But what about Naboo?” Melle looks up at Padmé, her eyes like two miniature suns. Burning with all the intensity and determination as a newly born star. “The Empire didn’t need a reason to go after Kashyyyk. They won’t need a reason to go after Naboo.”

Padmé studies Melle’s face, her dark hair, deep brown eyes, and sighs. “No, they won’t need a reason, your majesty.”

Melle disentangles herself from Padmé and shoots upwards, brushing off her stained handmaiden’s gown. She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Padmé can see the alarms going off in her head. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Padmé stands up as Melle—Apailana—does, and smiles softly at the young Queen. “I spent four years in that makeup, Apailana. I know how a Queen acts outside of it.”

Apailana sighs and presses her lips together, her dimples forming around the corners of her mouth. Moonlight makes her look even younger than she is. Padmé tilts her head. Her and Melle had been indistinguishable, so much so that Padmé now finds herself questioning her meeting with the Queen a few weeks ago.

“Did I talk to Melle or did I talk to you a few weeks ago?”

“Me.”

It would’ve been a better idea to have Padmé meet with a handmaiden. Very few people know of her true identity, and at the time of their meeting, Padmé could’ve been anyone from a high-class Senator to an assassin. 

Naboo’s tradition of using decoys has made bounty hunters do a double take, though. Some of them see the Queen and a handmaiden, assume the Queen is the decoy, and shoot the handmaiden instead. They think they’re so smart. 

While that might’ve happened to Melle and Apailana, the difference between them is observable at a few feet. 

Though, her and Melle are uncannily similar. They have the same dark hair and doe like eyes. Padmé, who spent several years as a handmaiden and Queen herself, should’ve noticed it right away. “You look a lot like Melle.”

“We’re twin sisters. Her name is Elle, my name is Maia, so we just combined them to create Melle. We switch when we need to.”

Padmé raises an eyebrow. Twins, one handmaiden, and one Queen. An interesting dynamic, to be sure. “Does she share your head for politics?”

“I’m only Queen because she backed me,” Maia smiles softly, wiping her eyes with her handmaiden’s robes. “But she doesn’t like being in the public eye, so I ran for Queen with her behind me.”

“I see,” Padmé brushes a strand of brown hair out of Maia’s face, and tucks it behind her ear. She bows slightly. “I’m sorry to hear about your cousin, your majesty.”

Padmé turns away from the girl, fully prepared to walk back to her room, when Maia calls out. “I’ll join you.”

It’s Padmé’s turn to be bewildered. “What?”

“When you said the Empire didn’t need a reason to enslave us, I didn’t believe you,” Maia admits, stepping closer to Padmé. “Then Kashyyyk happened. My cousin died. He was a good man. He died trying to help the Wookiees fight injustice, and I can’t let that stand. They enslaved Kashyyyk, they’ll enslave Naboo. When the time comes, Senator, Naboo will back you.”

Softly, Padmé smiles. This means more than she can truly express. A planet—her home planet, nonetheless—backing her feeble rebellion is everything. They have something now, something real, something tangible. “Thank you, your majesty.”

“Thank you, Padmé,” Maia smiles, her voice slipping into that of Queen Apailana. Around them, the wind flows through the fluted walls and roofs of Naboo, creating a song of life. A promise of the future.

* * *

The vote gets pushed back a few days after Senator Taa’s death.

Anakin didn’t exactly account for it but it doesn’t impede his plans in many ways. There’s a few days of mourning—most of which is fake, he can tell—and then the gears of the Empire kick into full speed again. The Senators are voting now, while he watches from his own personal pod. Bail Organa is in the next pod over, casting him the occasional look. They haven’t gotten the chance to talk since the debate but Bail is a smart man. Surely he’s put everything together.

Killing Taa put a significant wedge in the proposition’s plans. As Anakin suspected, several of them were paid off by Taa to vote in favour of the bill. Taa, who was trading his credits for the Emperor’s esteem, hadn’t arranged for any payments after his death. The flock of Senators around Taa had thinned, and while a considerable group stayed, they aren’t nearly large enough to vote the bill into existence.

Still. That might not matter if Sidious chooses to overrule it. Anakin leans forward in his pod, which is at eye level with his Master, and watches his expression carefully as the votes flood in. Chimes fill the air as the Senators vote. There’s a low chatter filling the room as the Senators talk with their aides, sometimes over a sparkling glass. Anakin stands alone in his pod, perfectly still as the votes are tallied. 

Having more credits go towards the Death Star is inexcusable. Normally, killing one Senator wouldn’t sway a vote. But in Taa’s case, it will. He had several speeches still planned for the debate, but those had been abandoned by the proposition. The death of an influential Senator, like Organa, Taa, Mothma— _Padmé_ , his mind whispers—can sway the vote. Anakin just has to wait and see.

The lights in the rotunda go red, and the holographic voting screens in each pod fizzle out. As he expected, the room swells with chatter as Mas Amedda steps up, banging his staff on the floor of the Emperor’s pod to silence the Senators. 

He clears his throat and glances at the datapad screen built into the pod. Sidious’ wrinkled face is covered by a hood and for once the Emperor seems content to fade into the background. Anakin is perfectly still, looking less like a person and more like a statue. 

Mas Amedda whispers into Sidious’ ear, expression unreadable, and Sidious steps up to the podium instead. 

“My dear Senators,” Sidious begins, his voice like the rasp of sand over skin. “The results of the recent investigation into Senator Taa’s death have arrived.”

Predictable as always, the Senators whisper among themselves. The ebb and flow of the Force in the rotunda stops for a second before resuming course. 

“Senator Taa was poisoned.”

A beat, which passes as Anakin’s breath vanishes, and then the rotunda erupts in noise. Accusations hurled at one another like stones, thrown by some of the most vocal Senators. Anakin steps backwards into his pod, the shadows falling over him like a dark cloak. Senator Taa wasn’t poisoned, he was drowned. With the Force, yes, but drowned nonetheless. Any autopsy results should show that he choked on his drink and wasn’t able to cough it up. There is no possible way for them to know what he did.

But Sidious’ glare says otherwise.

While the Senate screams around them, Sidious only stares at Anakin with snake-like yellow eyes and a vaguely disappointed look. Through their phantom bond, he can feel Sidious’ displeasure, and a ghost of the lightning sure to come. Anakin takes a deep breath, trying to calm the beat of his racing heart. How had Sidious figured it out? He’d been careful: he’d chosen a method so simple, so easy, that no one should be able to figure it out.

“Order!” Amedda roars, banging his staff on the floor. The rotunda falls quiet but the Force is wound tightly around the Senators, like a bowstring pulled too far.

“There is no danger, Senators,” Sidious crows, his voice taking on a grandfatherly quality. It brings Anakin back to his office’s soft cushions, the tea Palpatine always served him, the burning shame Anakin always felt when he returned to the Temple. 

“And the vote?” a Senator calls. Sidious’ expression flashes and Anakin gets a small glimpse of the Sith Lord who terrorized the galaxy.

Sidious appears to think for a few seconds, the folds of his skin sliding over one another as he does, and then straightens. “In light of this revelation, I am going to make an executive decision to pass this bill.”

In the pod next to Anakin, Bail sits down. The dark-haired Senator sighs, adjusting his cloak around his shoulder as he does. His aides buzz around him. It’s too loud for their words to be carried to Anakin but Bail’s anxiety leaks into the Force. 

“We will be able to purchase higher quality equipment as well as train our clone troopers better. Additional security measures will be afforded to Senators to stop this tragedy from ever happening again,” Sidious promises. His voice echoes around the rotunda, a perfect example of congeniality, but his gaze makes Anakin freeze. It’s harsh and violent and a terrible promise of what’s to come. 

Anakin glances downwards. His hands clutch the edge of the pod’s seats. It had been for nothing. He had killed Taa after a few seconds of thinking it through and the bill passed anyway. He doubts Bail will help him now. He’s earned himself a punishment from Sidious.

As the Emperor continues to talk, Anakin withdraws from his pod. The arching hallways of the Senate are empty, save for a few clones, and Anakin doesn’t bother with shielding as he prowls the hall. Let them feel his anger. Let them fear him. There’s no point in caring anymore, not when there are better things to worry about.

Like Sidious. Right now, seeing Sidious dead is the only thing worth it. Padmé had died, their child had died, and it was all Sidious’ fault. The galaxy has fallen into disarray—fuck, it had fallen into disarray long before the Empire. 

Sidious had just exacerbated it, exploited its faults and weakness, and then he watched it fall. To Anakin’s horror, he found it almost admirable. Such plotting, such strategy, would’ve been enough to change the tide of the war.

But that doesn’t matter, because Sidious _made_ the war. Anakin spent years of his life fighting for a pre-determined outcome, one in which he lost everything he cared about, and it had all been to serve the whims of one power-hungry man. 

He’d spent three years fighting for a Republic as corrupt as his enemy. Thyld hadn’t come out of nowhere: people with his ideals were hiding in the Republic ranks. Anakin wanted to believe the Republic (once, he’d put it so simply as ‘the Separatists believe the Republic is corrupt, but they’re wrong, and we have to restore order,’ and could he have been any more wrong?) was good, was pure, and he was blinded to its true form. Maybe the Empire was better. It was upfront about its interests at least.

No. No, the Empire is evil. It’s a horrific regime that squashes everyone under its foot like gnats. It can’t be good. If it is, then everything he’s lost, everything he fought for was for nothing. He lost Padmé for nothing. Ahsoka lost her childhood for nothing.

Ahsoka is another matter, he thinks as he heads into the Senate lobby. He still can’t feel her, despite Rex telling him over and over that she’s alive. It makes no sense—the bond snapped, he feels it, like a string that was cut. So why can’t he feel her?

She has to be okay. She will be okay. Ahsoka, his padawan, was taught well. She’s survived so much; she can survive this.

A flood of Senators enter the lobby, talking in hushed tones. Anakin, hovering in the shadows, watches them as they pass. Organa, Mothma, Chuchi, even a few banking clan representatives.

Organa glances around the room and when his gaze lands on Anakin, he excuses himself and wanders over to him. Anakin stands by one of the towering columns in the lobby. His dark suit blends in with the shadows. 

“Lord Vader,” Bail says, coming to a stop in front of Anakin. Today, he wears deep purple robes and a lilac cloak. It almost looks like something Padmé would’ve picked out. 

“Senator Organa,” Anakin responds. What does he want? The bill passed. Their chance for an alliance has died. 

“The bill passed,” Organa says simply, casting a glance around him as he does. His eyes are lined with dark bags. He didn’t even bother to try and hide his exhaustion. Most of the Senators have gathered in small pocket of conversation. "Am I to assume you had a hand in Taa’s death?”

Anakin laughs. The sound comes out like a burst of static through his vocoder, but he laughs anyway. In the Force, he casts out his consciousness and searches for any cameras or bugs. The hum of electricity can always be felt, no matter how small someone tries to make their bug. When he’s satisfied with the results, he says, “You can assume whatever you want, Organa.”

“Lord Vader,” Bail raises an eyebrow. He continues simply, “please.”

Anakin cocks his head. Through the red lenses of his suit, Bail’s clothing looks deep, deep magenta. In truth, he only guesses at colours. His suit makes it too difficult to distinguish between colours. Still, Anakin recognizes the annoyed flush of Bail’s face, so he responds, “I did what I thought was necessary, Senator Organa. Were you in my position, you would’ve done the same.”

“I didn’t like this bill, but I don’t see why you had to kill him. You’ve removed Ryloth from the Senate until they elect a new Senator.”

Anakin did what he had to. Taa was dangerous and so was that bill. Anakin had tried to stop it, tried to do something right, and he had failed. Still, he’s not going to apologize for trying. Taa was corrupt—even his own people hated him—and Anakin had done the collective galaxy a favour by killing him.

But it’s not like he can say that.

He can’t tell Bail about the Death Star, either, because that would put a price on Bail’s head. That project is need to know only and there’s a small pocket of officials who know about the project by name. Most others think they’re leading a research group on kyber crystals or a construction group on board a new type of ship. No one knows what that machine is actually capable of. And if he tells Organa, it’ll be traced right back to him.

The hardest part is that there is no justification for what Anakin did without the Death Star. Taa was corrupt, but so is nearly every other Senator. Killing him for that would only make Bail more suspicious. 

Anakin waits until a few more of the Senators have left and then whispers, “It’s not that simple, Organa.”

“Then explain it to me,” He insists. The warm yellow lights of the lobby make his skin gain a bit more colour, returning it to its normal light brown shade instead of pasty white. 

“I can’t,” Anakin hisses back.

“Why not?” Bail’s voice stays even.

Anakin breathes a long, slow breath out of his nose, glances around, and says, “You’re already a target, Senator. Don’t make yourself a bigger one.”

At that, Anakin leaves. He pushes past Bail and stalks through the lobby, but he barely gets a few feet before Organa calls. 

“Next time, Lord Vader, try diplomacy. It works a lot better and tends to have less consequences.”

He doesn’t understand. How can he go around making suggestions like that when he doesn’t even understand what Anakin is doing? This is so much bigger than Organa knows. He has no right to claim moral superiority over Anakin. Anakin’s head turns slowly as he says, “Don’t tell me what to do, Organa.”

Organa gives him a perfect politician’s smile, “I’m merely making a suggestion. Good day, my lord."

Organa leaves to talk to a fellow Senator, and Anakin storms out of the Senate building. He lets his shields drop a few inches, lets his anger leak out into the air. He doesn’t need to be bothered right now.

Sidious will be waiting for him.

* * *

Dantooine is a planet knit together by soft clouds, long green grass, and gently rolling hills. Lowly farmers dot the hills, tending to their herds of thune and bantha, wearing rough-spun brown clothing. Scraggly beards tickle their chins. 

It’s a planet from a dream. As she steps over the grass—long enough to tickle her bellybutton—seabirds crow. Dantooine’s single sun has slipped below the horizon, the warm tones brought from the sunset fading as quickly as they appeared. As it grows darker, she moves quicker.

She’s built for stealth. All corded muscle and sharp bone, footsteps that are softer than a mouse. No one is around to notice her anyway. In one hand, she twirls her unlit lightsaber hilt. Shorn from it is the circular design that graces all Inquisitor’s lightsabers. It was unwieldily and distracting so she removed it. When she returns to the Inquisition, she’ll be punished for it, but she doesn’t care. 

Soft yellow light spills from a small, circular hut on one of the hills nearby. It’s the first settlement she’s seen in a few kilometres and the nearest one to the rebel base. Normally, she’d disregard it as unimportant. She’s already found the rebel base, something her fellow Inquisitors have always failed at doing, and that alone is enough to gain favour with the Emperor. But something is calling her here.

The rebels wouldn’t tolerate having a hut so close to their own base. So whoever this is, they have to be important to the rebels somehow. Important enough to be secluded away from the rest of them. Was it for protection? If so, protection for them or for the rebels?

She spreads her mind out, letting it stretch over the rolling hills and wash up against the hut. Unsurprisingly, she rolls up against a wall built out of hard work and sheer determination. Protection for them, then.

While her talent is not enough to break through the shields, she knows there is someone in there. Why else would it be so shielded? Why else would the rebels seclude them like this? She’s not stupid—far from it, actually—and she knows when someone is trying to hide something.

She crouches and smiles under her blank mask. Moving quickly but quietly, she walks up the hill. Her ventilation system brings in the night air, which smells like the ground after rain, and it clears her mind like a cut to the stomach. 

A few metres from the hut, her heart begins to pick up. Blood floods her system, sweet adrenaline pouring through her veins.

Third Sister is a hound at her best, and she was bred for the hunt. 

She disappears into the Force, letting her consciousness disappear in the gentle flow of life on Dantooine. There are no Jedi here, she can tell, but there is still something worth protecting in the hut in front of her. Third Sister leaves tiny footprints in the soft dirt, ignoring the gravel sprinkled around the hut. 

She flexes her fingers. Lord Vader told her to report to the Inquisitorius and she ignored him in favour of going after her quarry. She knows they won’t miss her if she dies and she won’t return without something worth a punishment from the Grand Inquisitor. Third Sister is the best of the Inquisitors, she knows that, but she has to prove it to all of them. 

After this, she’ll be safe. She won’t have to worry about being hurt or killed or left behind ever again. Third Sister will make herself indispensable.

Something inside the hut shifts and Third Sister presses herself against the wall. The soft yellow light flicks out. Slowly, she stands up, one hand still on her lightsaber. 

Say what you will about her, but Third Sister does not lack manners. With curled knuckles she knocks on the door three times and then waits, her hands folded behind her back and clutching her lightsaber. 

After three more seconds, she drops her hands and rams her lit lightsaber through the door. It hums in her hands, already wanting to spill blood, and lights the night up in red. With a yank from the Force, Third Sister sends the door flying.

A stocky Mon Calamari waits for her, holding an electrostaff in his hands. 

Third Sister will not fail again. 

His jab comes quick and hard, and her body curves to duck out of the way. Third Sister tosses her deactivated lightsaber to her other hand, uses her dominant one to grab the middle of the electrostaff, twist, and activate her lightsaber in the same second she swipes up and severs the electrostaff.

The Mon Calamari drops his staff and lowers himself into a battle stance. Third Sister grins. His blood hums through his body, warm and alive and so, so sweet. This will be fun, but she knows it’ll be short.A stocky, orange-skinned fish is far below her usual game. Hunting Jedi has given her high standards, ones that a Mon Calamari could never meet. Still, Third Sister throws her entire self into this mission. 

Like a snake circling prey, she crouches as she moves around him. The Force flows through her, bringing her blood to a fever pitch. 

“What are you protecting?” she murmurs, her voice raspy. The warrior tenses, and Third Sister prepares herself for another attack. His electrostaff lays crumpled on the floor but that doesn’t mean he’s done fighting.

He springs at her, fists flying, and Third Sister traces a line from his bellybutton to his chin. Only lightly—the lightsaber cauterizes his wound, and she barely touched his skin anyway. Still, he wilts like a dead rose and drops to the ground.

Third Sister deactivates her red lightsaber and clips it back onto her belt. While the Mon Calamari is lying on the floor, writhing in pain, she takes that moment to look around. 

It’s a nice home. Small, well lived in, with a pan of. . . something cooking on the counter. It’s domestic. Third Sister turns back to the writhing alien on the floor and bends down, watching as he convulses in pain. “What are you protecting?”

He looks up at her, yellow eyes bright with defiance. Third Sister sighs and stands back up. She’ll find his secret herself. Before she does, she uses the tip of her foot to nudge the Mon Calamari onto his stomach. He screams as his burnt flesh comes into contact with the rough ground. The sound worms its way into Third Sister’s head and she smiles. 

There’s a small tarp acting as a door into the back and Third Sister pushes it aside. It flutters back down behind her. 

Bright braided mats dot the room, with a small bedroll tucked into the corner. It’s not the only ‘room’ in the hut, but it does seem to be the biggest. Multiple keepsakes are strewn around, from various mechanical bits to broken droids. Third Sister curls her lip. Sentimental shit like this will do nothing good for anyone.

Whatever he’s protecting, it’ll be in here. Third Sister hops onto one of the tables and brushes her hand along the roof. Even through her gloves, every bump and whorl in the bark presses into her fingers. Her fingertips ghost over a small ledge in the roof, and she smiles before she pushes it. 

The trapdoor opens, its cover swinging down, but no ladder falls out. Third Sister grabs the edge of the opening. She pulls herself up with practiced ease, sliding her slim body into the attic. Her mask keeps any of the dust from entering her lungs, but she still wants to sneeze.

The roof of the hut is made of dried straw that rustles as Third Sister crawls her way through the attic. She presses her stomach against the floor and pulls herself forward by placing one forearm on the ground, dragging herself forward, and repeating with the opposite arm.

There’s a small box jammed in the corner of the attic, which Third Sister reaches within seconds. A quick pull from the Force and the lid slides off. She sits up as much as she can. Third Sister tips over the box, and her eyes scan every item that falls out of it.

Nothing. Just weapons, all stored in a single cache. Blasters, swords, electrobatons, nothing she can actually use. Definitely not what he was protecting.

Third Sister bites the side of her cheek hard enough to draw blood as she army crawls back to the trapdoor. She drops down and doesn’t bother to close it again. When she’s done, no one will be around to care about an open trapdoor.

The Mon Calamari should just make this easy for himself. Whatever he’s hiding, she’ll find it.Third Sister glances around the room once again. If she can find whatever valuable thing he’s hiding, she might be able to work her way back into Lord Vader’s favour.

And she needs his favour. Falling out of power in the Inquisition means she’ll be killed, and she’s worked too hard, too long to die like this. A Jedi doesn’t fear death, but she hasn’t been a Jedi for a while.

Third Sister grabs the bedroll out of its place in the corner and flings it around the room. She can’t fail. She can’t die, not like this.

Her chest feels like a sucking wound, and every breath of air stings. Where is it? It has to be somewhere. Third Sister grits her teeth and lashes out. Like a mechanical toy that’s been wound too tight, her bones are close to breaking under the pressure from her muscles. Third Sister yanks and pulls at the room, shredding wood and blankets and books in a fit of anger. 

There is only her and her rage, and she lets herself fall headlong into it. Her red-hot anger wraps around her like a mother’s embrace (not that she knows what that’s like, because of the fucking Jedi). In this moment, where no one is here, she tears and rips and screams.

Her lightsaber is in her hand, and she’s ready to ignite it and burn down the entire fucking hut when she rips one of the blankets away from the wall and stares straight into wide blue eyes.

Two children, both chubby and wearing hand-made clothes, tucked away under a blanket. Human. Third Sister stops. This is what he was protecting, this is why he had risked his life.

She imagines what their necks would feel like under her hand. Soft bones, snapping as she pressed down. Their protector had risked his life for them. What had they done to be that loved? She had worked so hard for something they already had, and she wanted to hurt them, to watch their skin turn bright red under her fingers.

But she holds back. Instead, she reaches down and takes a hold of their singular crib. The babies whimper, and the smaller of the two reaches for the other. Third Sister parts the tarp, and steps back into the main room. The broken door blows gusts of wind into the hut, and Third Sister sets the crib down on the table, and goes back to the Mon Calamari. 

With the Force, she taps along the infants mind. Powerful shields, but beyond that, undying light. Something so bright, so pure, that she has to pull back before it overwhelms her. 

Force-Sensitive.

Third Sister turns back to the Mon Calamari who is still laying on his stomach, and steps between his shoulder blades. He wheezes. Third Sister straddles his back between her legs and unclips her lightsaber hilt, pressing it against his skull. All she has to do is activate it, and he’ll be dead.

With her other hand, she presses his face into the ground. “Who are they?”

Her fingernails dig into flesh, and some dark thing inside of her smiles. His skin is clammy and he smells like salt and seawater. He wheezes again, and Third Sister presses his head down even more.

“Who are they?”

Large orange fists beat the ground, and his breath comes out in a low keen. Third Sister presses down harder, as if she were crushing a nut under her foot. “Who are they?”

“No one.”

“That’s a lie,” Third Sister snarls, pressing as hard as she can. Something breaks, and he screams. The sound splits the calm Dantooine sky, and she grins. This is what it means to have power. To be in control. The infants murmur from their place on the table, and he gasps for breath.

“Who are they?”

Third Sister presses harder, and his breaths become stuttering. Under her hand, his blood flows, hot and heady and burning with pain. “Tell me.”

“Luke and Leia! Luke and Leia, please, I just need to—”

Third Sister activates her lightsaber as she releases his head, and his head falls to the ground, limp. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i regret nothing
> 
> sorry for the long wait, i was institutionalized for a few days without my computer and then my cat died
> 
> fun fact: the amount of money referenced in bail's speech (50 trillion) is actually miniscule !! the gross galactic product (star wars GDP) is estimated around 4.069 sextillion dollars :))
> 
> sorry for the lack of ahsoka and obi content: they had to be away from dantooine for third sister to kidnap the twins, and third sister needed to be pushed by anakin to kidnapping the twins. rest assured, obi shows back up in the next chapter <3
> 
> AS FOR THE NEXT UPDATE
> 
> my family is going on vacation to another province in our country, and while im bringing my computer along, there's not going to be a huge opportunity for me to write :( additionally, there's a lot planned, so there will be a wait for the next chapter. we're driving back on July 19th, and then i have a series of psych appointments (i am fine, don't worry), so the update should be out sometime around July 22nd. 
> 
> to tide you guys over, i'm giving you the chapter summary early ;))
> 
> Anakin gets a gift from Third Sister. Rex, Cody, and Bly decide to stop the chips at their source. Ahsoka and the younglings arrive on Dantooine, where Padmé and Obi-Wan await.
> 
> POSTED 12/07/2020


	15. The Path Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan and Ahsoka arrive on Dantooine. Rex, Cody, and Bly present their plan forward to Anakin. Anakin is given an impromptu gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing an entire 12k chapter on your phone is hard, so please forgive any grammar mistakes in here 
> 
> also read the notes at the end they're important

After spending seven months on a planet covered in mud, Master Yoda smells like a rotting tooka. Having been on Dagobah for the better part of two months (a time filled with frustration and Master Yoda’s terrible soup), Obi-Wan probably smells too.

Obi-Wan had assumed he’d grow used to the smell after a few days with the tiny green alien but as the days dragged on, the smell only became worse. But they’re almost to Dantooine, and soon he’ll be able to have a shower and a break from Yoda.

Through the viewport of his ETA-2, Obi-Wan watches as Yoda slowly rises towards the battered corvette a few klicks in front of them. He adjusts his grip and the controls and follows Yoda, closing the gap between his starfighter and the corvette in a minute. Yoda rises into the hangar first, docking his Delta-7 easily, and Obi-Wan follows him.

He steps out of the ETA-2 and groans under his breath as he stretches his muscles. His ETA-2 is built for combat, not for long trips like this. Both him and Yoda had left their docking rings a few klicks behind, in a nearby asteroid field. The Empire shouldn’t be able to find them there but the field is close to Dantooine in case of emergency.

Artoo rises out of the astromech spot and chirps a few times, rolling around on the white floor of the corvette. Yoda hobbles out of his Delta-7, his cane clicking on the ground as he does. Artoo spins in place a few times, beeping in binary too quick for Obi-Wan to catch.

The interior of the corvette is clean, but the hangar has several black scorch marks blasted onto its floor. Deep slashes pepper the ground, ones he recognizes. Lightsaber cuts are distinctive. The brief flashes he’d gotten from Ahsoka helped him put the entire picture together in seconds.

“Inquisitors,” he mutters, mostly for Yoda’s sake. Through their thin bond, he’d felt Ahsoka’s sudden fear, triumph, and sinking terror. After, she’d sent him flashes of the fight. One Inquisitorwas stocky, grey-skinned, and dead within seconds, while the other was much more dangerous. Wiry, with a small frame and a form-fitting uniform with minimal armour save for her chest, shoulders, and back. Ahsoka had defeated her, of course, but still. She was better than First Sister—who wasn’t that impressive to begin with—but only barely.

“Inquisitors, you say?” Yoda grumbles, smacking his lips together. Obi-Wan sighs. He’d already explained this to Yoda twice, and still he didn’t seem to get it. The decorated general was out of practice.

“To hunt Jedi. Two of them were here.”

“Dealt with them, Padawan Tano did?”

“It wasn’t all me.”

Ahsoka’s voice reaches Obi-Wan’s ears before he sees her, and when he does, his heart swells. The once-padawan is followed by two others, a padawan he recognizes as Master Billaba’s apprentice, Caleb Dume, and, judging from the long braid on his shoulder, a second padawan. Ahsoka stands between them, her arms crossed over her chest and a playful smirk on her lips. “Samael and Caleb did most of the work.”

She jokes, but both Padawans have gone stiff. As they draw closer and then stop in front of Yoda and Obi-Wan, both boys drop into traditional bows, their faces solemn. Yoda hobbles forwards, his cane clicking on the hangar floor as he does, and waves a three-fingered hand. The padawans stand back up, but their posture stays just as formal as it was before.

Yoda begins to speak to the padawans, who respond in turn. Their voices fade into the background. Ahsoka smiles at him. In two months, her montrals have grown by a few centimetres, as have her lekku. A small change, but one he notices anyway.

That’s not the part that hurts. It’s the fact that the smirk on her lips, the self-assured set of her shoulders, and the way she projects quiet confidence in the Force reminds him so much of Anakin.

“Master Kenobi,” Ahsoka drawls, bowing. She seems sincere but he knows her well enough to know when she’s joking.

“Padawan Tano,” he parrots back, bowing to her. Obi-Wan makes sure to put the right amount of humour in his voice, and when Ahsoka meets his eyes with a small smile, he knows he’s succeeded.

Ahsoka’s eyes slide over to Master Yoda and the padawans as they head out of the hangar. She places a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder and turns him towards a small door. “You should probably shower before you see the younglings. They’re ruthless.”

“I can handle it, Ahsoka,” he says, the beginnings of a smile stretching at his lips. But the offer of a shower, water or not, makes him suddenly aware of the dirt and grime staining his hair, his beard, his robes. He’d dealt with worse conditions during the war, but never for two months straight.

The Togruta stops in front of the doorway and ushers him in. He steps into the pristine white room, trailing dirt behind him. He’s not sure why there’s a refresher connected to the hangar but he chalks it up to the corvette being a new model and leaves it at that.

Ahsoka leans against the doorway, Artoo trailing behind her, and smiles. “There’s a communal area just down the main hallway. We’ll be waiting there.”

“Thank you, Ahsoka,” Obi-Wan says. Their bond, which has been growing steadily stronger since Order 66, anchors him to her. After months of distance, the bond grows warm now that they’re face to face.

“We’ll be landing in a few minutes. Try not to take too long,” she teases as she steps back into the main hangar, refresher door slamming shut behind her. To himself, Obi-Wan smiles. It’s good to be around the padawan again.

As he peels his robes from his body, sets his lightsaber by the sink, and starts the shower, he lets his mind drift. It’d taken the better part of two months to convince Yoda to join the fledgling rebellion—which _really_ needs a name—and for Ahsoka to get the padawans and younglings to Dantooine. Obi-Wan entertains dreams of rebuilding the Order, but as long as the Empire stands, that’ll be nothing more than a fantasy.

Obi-Wan steps into the shower and lets the warm water run over his tired body for a few precious seconds before he grabs the soap and begins to scrub the mud from every pore. The star destroyers he spent the past three years on were equipped only with sonic showers, as water was a luxury, and the base on Dantooine had been no different. Corvettes are commonly used as diplomatic vessels, so it makes sense that a ship for the upper echelons has water showers.

He sets the soap back into its holder and grabs one of several bottles stacked in the shower. It’s some basic, no name brand, but it’s definitely some kind of hair product. Good enough. He squeezes a glob of brightly pigmented purple product into his palm and closes the bottle with his free hand. The ship rocks for a moment and he almost slips in the shower.

Obi-Wan rubs the product into his hair, trying to wipe away all of the gunk that had built up during his time on Dagobah. While the Force had guided him to the planet within a few hours, he’d spent months on the swampy planet arguing with Yoda.

His great-grandmaster had been insistent on waiting to overthrow the Empire until the twins were fully grown and able to be trained. While Obi-Wan has no delusions about the Empire and the rebellion—he knows that any hope of restoring the Republic is going to take months upon months upon months of work at best and a century of work at worst—they don’t have time to wait. Every rotation means more Jedi die, more worlds fall to the Empire, and the Force grows more and more unbalanced.

It’s been spinning closer and closer to the dark for years and when the Jedi died, the light died with it. There are pinpricks of light amongst the galaxy, like Ahsoka, Padmé, Luke, Leia, and himself, but if he steps off of Dantooine it just gets worse. The closer he gets to Coruscant, to Sidious, the worse it seems to get.

But the Force had been unbalanced for years. As he steps out of the shower and grabs a towel from the rack, Obi-Wan frowns. The Jedi hadn’t known how to go about balancing the Force, though they had their guesses. For the most part, they simply said ending the war would bring balance.

Yet, Obi-Wan still remembers what Qui-Gon told him about Anakin. His master believed he was the Chosen One. Obi-Wan had been skeptical at first, but a few weeks into Anakin’s apprenticeship he’d accepted the truth. He’d shined so brightly, as if the Force had been given form.

Luke and Leia are the same. Luminescent. Almost unable to contain their own abilities. One day, they’ll be formidable warriors, but right now they’re little more than newborns. How much will they have grown since he left for Dagobah?

There’s a scratchy bathrobe on the counter of the refresher and Obi-Wan tugs it around himself as soon as he’s dry. This corvette was definitely engineered with the higher classes in mind. How had Ahsoka even gotten her hands on it? Something like this would go for several thousand credits, probably more (he’d never been the expert on ships) and Ahsoka definitely didn’t have that kind of money. The only people able to afford the ship are politicians and criminals. Hutts, rich bounty hunters, successful pod racers. . .

Ah.

Obi-Wan taps open the refresher door, trying to remember where in his ETA-2 he left his clean set of robes, only for his foot to brush against a pressed and folded set of robes just outside the door.

He smiles as he picks them up and slips into the many layers of clothing. Both Anakin and Ahsoka had gotten used to taking care of him during the war. They’d always tried to do it in ‘subtle’ ways, like spiking his tea with sleeping pills or daring him to see who could eat ten ration bars the fastest. For their sake he pretended he was oblivious. Besides, seeing Anakin shove ration bars down his throat with the hunger of a rabid bantha made Obi-Wan smile for the rest of the day.

Once he’s pulled on the robes, Obi-Wan checks to make sure the refresher is semi-clean, his dirty robes folded on the counter, all of the bottles in the shower set upright, and his towel and bathrobe next to the clothes. He hooks his lightsaber onto his hip.

For the first time in months he can smell something other than mud. He hurries through the white corridors, homing in on Ahsoka’s familiar presence.

Since the fall of the Republic, their thin bond has grown stronger and stronger. Officially, Obi-Wan and Ahsoka weren’t supposed to have a bond in the first place, but it’d formed anyway. He’d become somewhat of a second master to Ahsoka, in a way. Obi-Wan knows what it’s like to take on a padawan when you’re barely even a knight. During the early days of Anakin’s apprenticeship, Obi-Wan hadn’t known where to start. He was newly knighted and as soon as his padawan braid was cut, Anakin was growing one of his own.

He’d been around to provide his former apprentice with support when Ahsoka was assigned to him. Most master and padawan duos were separated after the end of the apprenticeship, to prevent attachment, but the rules had bent during the war. Additionally, Obi-Wan wanted to be there, to support Anakin.

Force knows Obi-Wan needed that support in the early days. Having a padawan thrusted on a newly-knighted Jedi was rare, but when it did happen it wore down the knight over the course of years.

He’d trained Ahsoka in jar’kai, taking the burden off of Anakin, and had taught her a myriad of other tricks. Obi-Wan had been as much of a master to her as Anakin.

By the time he reaches that conclusion he’s arrived at the corvette’s bridge. Several of the younglings cluster around Yoda, who has a small, serene smile plastered on his wrinkly face. Ahsoka’s montrals peek over the heavily cushioned pilot’s seat. Obi-Wan smiles at the younglings as he passes, most of them bowing clumsily when he does, and takes up a seat next to her.

Ahsoka glances at him out of the corner of her large eyes and smiles. “Hello, Master.”

“Padawan,” Obi-Wan smiles back. He’s not really a master anymore—it’s not like there’s anything to be a master of—and she’s not a padawan, but they’ve taken to calling each other by their ‘official’ titles.

“We’re coming up on Dantooine now,” Ahsoka says. The planet rises above them, growing steadily larger and larger. It’s a blue and green smear. The planet is covered in lowlands and pastures, with two mountain ranges and a small desert to the south. The farmers living there welcomed them, as the rebels bought and traded with them. When the Empire inevitably finds them, Obi-Wan imagines the farmers will be much less genial.

“Did you run into any trouble?”

“There were a couple of pirates a few days back—” Ahsoka says, a mischievous smirk growing on her face, “—but we dealt with them.”

“I do hope you didn’t scare them too badly.”

Ahsoka shrugs. “I’m sure they’ll recover.”

He nods. Ahsoka had been trained well.

“And the rations?”

Ahsoka nods as she steers the corvette around Dantooine, searching for their base, “There was more than enough, if that’s what you’re asking. We had to force some of the younglings to eat them.”

“That bad?”

“Ration bars. Better than the ones we got during the war.”

Her voice tightens up when she speaks about the war and Ahsoka’s gaze falls downwards. Obi-Wan sighs under his breath. Ahsoka fiddles with the controls.

The war has had its impact on both of them. It’s easier to pretend it doesn’t, that it’s a thing of the past, but Ahsoka still has trouble sleeping (he knows, and though she doesn’t tell him that, he sees the bags under her eyes and the stifled yawns). Obi-Wan still calculates escape routes when he enters a room.

“Those ones never were any good,” Obi-Wan says. He keeps his voice even but there’s a tension to it that grates.

“They were better than most things.”

“If it was fun, it wouldn’t have been a war,” He glances at her, carefully gauging her reaction. Stepping over a line won’t do either of them any good.

“You still tried, though,” Ahsoka’s words stream out of her mouth in a second and she doesn’t seem to register the fact that she said them for a few seconds after that. The corner of her mouth twitches, and the white markings above her eyes furrow ever so slightly.

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“You and Anakin. You tried to make it fun,” Ahsoka says. Her eyes are downcast and without reaching into the Force, Obi-Wan can feel her resigned despair. Before he can think of what to say, she continues. “I know you wanted to make it easy for me. I know you were trying.”

“Ahsoka—”

“Thank you. I. . .” Ahsoka’s throat bobs and she refuses to look at him. “I think I needed that.”

Obi-Wan sighs and drowns out the younglings behind them. He leans into the cushioned co-pilot’s seat. There was never a co-ordinated effort to protect her, only a silent agreement. He and Anakin had done their best to shield Ahsoka from the worst of the war. Some of the terrors had made their way to her anyway, but still. They had tried. The war pulled so much from them and they had tried to save Ahsoka. Obi-Wan hid the truth of the casualty reports from the bright young commander and Anakin hid his nightmares, his worries.

“You knew,” he breathes. Ahsoka nods, her lower lip trembling as she does.

Then, had their efforts meant anything? If Ahsoka had weathered the full extent of the war, then all their secrets and efforts had been for nothing. It’d been a consolation prize, but most likely it had made Ahsoka feel like a child (which she was, a part of him argues) when she was a Jedi, a respected commander.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Obi-Wan raises a hand to his chin as he continues, “We wanted you to have some kind of childhood.”

It’s attachment, he knows that. Jedi are supposed to be compassionate, but no Master he knows would advocate for hiding the truth. They’d call Ahsoka’s experiences in war sobering, an important part of her path as a Jedi, growth.

Ahsoka smiles wryly. “It helped. Made the war a bit easier.”

“Still.”

“You didn’t mess up there,” Ahsoka’s eyes flick over to him. Obi-Wan doesn’t flinch, though he wants to. He didn’t mess up there. But he messed up in other places.

After all, he was on the council when Ahsoka was exiled. He’d vouched for her, but when it came down to it he let the council accuse her, exile her, strip her of her titles, and the most he’d been able to offer afterwards was a vague apology.

“I’m sorry about the trial,” he says. Ahsoka squeezes her eyes shut and the corvette rocks. As they cruise into Dantooine’s atmosphere, the Force shifts and Obi-Wan takes in the life around them.

“Thanks,” Ahsoka murmurs as she lands the corvette. It touches down with a thud and the younglings pile out as soon as they can. Yoda hobbles after them. When the corvette powers down and the lights on its console blink out, Ahsoka and Obi-Wan are still there.

“Ahsoka,” he says, “I was wrong.”

Obi-Wan blinks slowly to wash away any tears. He reaches towards the lump of anxiety and regret and guilt in his chest. He picks it up and lets it fill him. He names each part, giving himself ample time to know his emotions and, by extension, himself, before he releases them into the Force.

“I am sorry. There is no way to fix my mistakes; I know that. But I don’t want to lose you, Padawan.”

Ahsoka’s lips press together and her chin tightens. She leans forwards, sets her elbows on the console and rests her head on her hands. Obi-Wan shields himself carefully. She deserves privacy.

Obi-Wan reaches out across the gap and sets his trembling hand on her shoulder. “I love you, Ahsoka. I don’t want to lose you.”

The word _too_ hangs off of his sentence but he means it all the same. Losing Ahsoka now, after he lost Qui-Gon, the Jedi, and Anakin—he doesn’t think he’ll be able to handle it.

Ahsoka’s shoulders collapse inwards as she begins to cry, quietly, muffling her sobs in her hands. Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and pulls her closer, clasping his arms around her. Ahsoka cries, hiccuping as she does. Her chest heaves. Ahsoka presses her face into his robes and sniffles softly before she withdraws.

“I love you too,” Ahsoka says, her voice low and gravelly. She wipes her nose with the palm of her hand and tries to blink away her tears. Obi-Wan sniffs and runs a sleeve across his eyes to wipe away his own tears.

“And thank you,” Ahsoka murmurs, “For apologizing. I-I know you never wanted to hurt me but still. I-thank you.”

“Of course, padawan,” Obi-Wan smiles and pushes himself out of his seat. His bones crack a bit too loudly, and Ahsoka’s pensive expression is replaced by a much more familiar mischievous one.

“Yes, yes, I know I’m getting old,” he says before Ahsoka can make any jokes about it. She smirks, like the tooka that caught the womp rat, and Obi-Wan hurries out of the corvette before she can tease him anymore. She learned from the best, after all.

He’s able to find the offloading ramp quick enough. Ahsoka trails after him, calling a small bag to her as she does. Obi-Wan pauses and glances behind himself, back into the shiny white interior of the corvette. “Where did Artoo go?”

“With Master Yoda and the younglings,” Ahsoka gestures vaguely to the flock of Jedi heading down the path to the main building. She shrugs the bag over her shoulder and adjusts it until its contents stop clicking against one another as she moves. Obi-Wan nods and begins to walk, making sure to slow down for Ahsoka to catch up.

Dantooine is bright, made of pastel tones and soft wind. Their base is small and blends into the terrain easily enough. It should be difficult enough for the Imperials to find, but the Jedi will have to relocate anyways. So many Force-sensitives in one area would send the Inquisitors straight to Dantooine.

Worse, it might attract Darth Vader.

Obi-Wan isn’t entirely sure what to think of the new Sith. He’s only heard of him in passing, never seen him, never witnessed his work. Sidious picks his apprentices well—Dooku, Maul, both formidable opponents—and Darth Vader must be his endgame. Dooku and Maul were little more than pawns, and while Vader may be another piece in Sidious’ puzzle, Obi-Wan doubts that. Sidious needs someone to enforce his rule across the Empire, and he’d trust no one but the strongest possible apprentice to do that.

His role alone makes Vader dangerous. Being Sidious’ chosen is enough to make Obi-Wan wary. Bail, who had seen his fair share of danger during the war, had seemed frightened of him. And a group of Jedi would be more than enough to send the Sith apprentice right to Dantooine.

The rebels should be fine, though. Obi-Wan glances around the base as Ahsoka and him make their way through the throng of people. None of the rebels are too recognizable, none of them well-known. It’ll grant them anonymity, and, by extension, the rebellion anonymity.

Ahsoka searches the crowd as well, but her gaze skips over the rebels without really considering anyone.

“Looking for Padmé?”

“No,” Ahsoka responds, continuing to search the crowd. “Rex. He should be back by now.”

“Did he say how long he’d be gone?” Obi-Wan asks, raising a hand to his chin. Rex is a brilliant strategist and captain, but more importantly he’s a friend.

He tries his hardest not to think about a different clone.

“He wasn’t sure, but it’s been months. And after the comm I got from him on Tatooine. . .” Ahsoka murmurs. Obi-Wan pieces it together himself.

“Ah.”

“Yeah,” she mutters.

Before he can say anything else, Ahsoka steps up the stairs and into the main base. The thick scent of sweat fills the air and the Force tightens itself into a knot as he steps in. Instinctively, Obi-Wan draws a sudden breath and raises his shields. Ahsoka’s posture stiffens.

Across from them, leaned over a holotable, Padmé waits. Her hair is pulled back and her eyes are lined with thick purple bags. Obi-Wan and Ahsoka speed up, moving as if they were one, and reach the other side of the holotable within seconds.

“Luke and Leia,” Padmé rasps, “They’re gone.”

“What?”

“Where?”

“They found Threepio on his way back to the base with his battery dead. He said he went out to trade and he came back and Naer was gone and the twins were gone—”

Obi-Wan’s chest sinks and he zeroes in on the tiny hut just outside of the rebel’s valley. He expects to sail through the barriers he and Ahsoka put up—and he does—but there’s no light in the hut.

They’re gone.

“Have you checked the hut?” Obi-Wan’s hands grip the edge of the holotable. The world outside of the table and Padmé vanishes as she talks.

“No, I just got back yesterday and they said it wasn’t safe for me to go and they wouldn’t give me a speeder,” Padmé is near hysteric.

“We’ll go,” Ahsoka says, already pulling off her bag and fishing something—Obi-Wan doesn’t stop to look—out of it.

Obi-Wan is tempted to run straight to the hut, find the twins, do something to make it better, but he stops himself and steps around the holotable to place his hands on Padmé’s shoulder and try to iron out her Force signature.

“Have you eaten anything lately? Slept?”

“No. Have you?” Padmé’s eyes flash as she shoots back at him. Obi-Wan’s brow crinkles. She’s right—he hasn’t had nearly enough to eat nor nearly enough sleep, but that’s not his concern now. Luke and Leia are.

Losing them is a loss to the Jedi and to the galaxy, yes, but they’re a loss to him. He’s not supposed to be attached but those two squalling children are difficult to resist. They’re his niece and nephew in everything but blood. They’re Anakin’s, but more importantly they’re his family. He’s lost too many people in the past year alone. Obi-Wan won’t lose anymore.

“Let’s go,” Ahsoka’s voice is as clear as a bell from her position next to him. Obi-Wan isn’t entirely sure when she got there but he doesn’t question it.

“Be careful. I’ll call Bail and ask him if he knows anything. The speeders are docked in the second hangar bay,” Padmé says. Her voice hardens into tempered steel, every inch a Senator, but her Force signature is radiating pain, fear, and anger.

He sends one last calming signal before he drops his hands from her shoulders and turns. Ahsoka falls into step with him as he pushes his way through the base. Luke and Leia have to be safe. He won’t fail.

They reach the hangar bay in a few seconds. It’s occupied not by starships—the rebel’s fleet is too small to fill half of a hangar bay—but by an array of broken speeders. Obi-Wan picks out the two fastest looking ones. They’re painted blue and are sleek, though covered in mud and obviously aged.

To the Twi’lek overseeing the hangar, he raises his lightsaber as if it’s a badge—which, in some aspects, it is—and leaves it at that. Ahsoka hops onto the speeder first and Obi-Wan steps up onto the one next to it. He lets her lead, and they tear out of the hangar bay and onto the beaten dirt path without saying a word.

Obi-Wan pushes his speeder as fast as it can go. The more they know about the disappearance, the sooner they can find the twins. He doesn’t entertain any other possibility.

The draft generated by their speeders flattens the grass as they pass. This area of Dantooine is sparse, and there are no mountain ranges for hundreds of klicks; only hills and long grass.

They chose this location because it’s both close and nondescript. The hut looks like every other settlement on Dantooine. Still, as they move through a rocky pass, Obi-Wan wishes they’d kept them closer. The children’s powerful signatures meant it was too dangerous to keep them with the rebels, because if the children were detected the entire rebellion would die. Obi-Wan wanted to have them moved back to the main base after the rebellion spread out. Luminara had found Master Koth, who had left the Jedi Order shortly before Order 66 and they had moved to another planet, one Obi-Wan doesn’t know, and had gathered their own cell.

Their speeders grumble as they travel down the hill. The hut lays just a klick away. It grows bigger and bigger as they approach. He can already see signs of damage.

They press on.

Before her speeder can fully stop, Ahsoka lifts her leg over the side and hops off. Obi-Wan brings his to a complete stop before he follows.

“The door is gone,” Ahsoka says, unclipping two slightly curved lightsabers from her hips. She holds them in her typical reverse grip, ready to ignite them at the slightest noise. Obi-Wan follows in her stead.

“When did you get those?” he asks. Knowing the gravity of the situation, her new lightsabersshould really be the least of his concerns.

“One of the Inquisitors.”

“I see,” Obi-Wan mutters as they draw closer to the hut. Ahsoka stops just short of the door. The gravel around the hut is relatively undisturbed, only having been moved by the wind. Obi-Wan sighs and takes the first step into the hut.

The door lays on the floor, a hole seared into the front, but that’s not what catches his attention. Naer Pattel, the Mon Calamari they’d entrusted to guard the twins, is limp on the floor. Ahsoka chokes as she follows behind him. Naer’s skin is rotted and tiny maggots crawl over his rubbery skin. Judging by the smell, he’s been dead for a while.

Obi-Wan kneels. He doesn’t touch the body, but inspects the marks on Naer’s skin. There’s a hole shooting through his head. It’s the exact diameter of a lightsaber and it cauterized on impact. The details are hard to make out, but deep fingernail markings are pressed into his skin.

“Inquisitors,” Obi-Wan says as he stands. With the tip of his boot, he flips the body over to reveal a wound running from his bellybutton to the tip of his chin. It’s light enough so as not to kill him but still deep enough to cause serious pain. Fibre from the hut’s flooring is stuck into the wound. He must’ve been turned over when it was still fresh.

Obi-Wan sighs and murmurs a prayer under his breath. The lights of the hut are off and he has to squint to see. The woven straw floors rasp as he moves over them.

“Look,” Ahsoka holds two halves of Naer’s weapon, severed cleanly. “Definitely Inquisitors.”

A deep exhale escapes from his mouth. Obi-Wan adjusts his grip on his lightsaber and steps over Naer, pushing aside the curtain that formed the door to the twins’ room. There’s only two ways for this to go. He’ll either find nothing, or he’ll find something worse than Naer’s body.

There isn’t a good option.

The small room is dark and the fishy smell of Naer’s rotting corpse blocks out anything else. Obi-Wan activates his lightsaber, careful not to let it touch any of the decorations around the room.

Somehow, the room is even worse. Deep lightsaber marks score every surface. The room is ripped apart, not by the Force, but by hands. This is something desperate, something personal. The dark side hangs heavy over the room and though there is nothing to create the smell, Obi-Wan can pick up the heavy metallic tang of freshly-drawn blood.

He takes a deep breath and parts one of the rugs hanging from the wall, praying for Luke and Leia’s safety.

There are only scratches in the wall from where something was dragged alone it. No bodies, but no children either. Obi-Wan sighs, and steps to the side as Ahsoka joins him in the room. He angles his lightsaber away from her. The light from his weapon casts dark shadows on the wall, twisting Ahsoka’s montrals into fiendish horns.

Ahsoka raises her head and dips into the Force. Her eyes close, face twitching as she taps around the room. When she flinches, he feels it as well.

“Yeah,” she mutters, “Inquisitors.”

Obi-Wan sighs. From what he’s seen, the Inquisitors have varied wildly in quality. The Grand Inquisitor had a near encyclopedic knowledge of form and minutiae, while First Sister had been erratic and as unstable as the dunes of Tatooine.

He doesn’t know about this Inquisitor. “Do you recognize them?”

“It’s the same one from the ship,” Ahsoka frowns.

“You’re positive?”

“Yes, I’m positive,” Ahsoka pops an eye open. Obi-Wan shrugs. He can’t be sure without her confirmation.

Ahsoka opens her other eye and glances up at the ceiling. Without her having to ask, Obi-Wan clasps his hands together and leans down. Ahsoka places a hand on his shoulder, a foot on his clasped fingers, and steps up.

She clasps the edge of an open trapdoor and pulls herself up. Obi-Wan keeps his fingers clasped together while she shimmies into the opening, just in case she falls. While he knows she’ll be able to catch herself, being prepared to catch her doesn’t hurt anyone.

As Ahsoka moves through the ceiling the hut shakes. It’s a flimsy thing, made of willpower as much as it’s made of wood. Rotting wood, at that. It’s a miracle the Inquisitor’s attack didn’t destroy the entire hut.

Obi-Wan frowns and places a hand on his chin. How had the Inquisitor found the twins in the first place? Ahsoka and him spent a full day erecting mental shields around the hut itself as well as Luke and Leia’s mind—a process they were rather unenthusiastic about. He doesn’t want to boast, but he knows that him and Ahsoka were some of the strongest Jedi in the Order. Maybe not in sheer midichlorian count (Anakin takes that spot by far) but they had both been disciplined. Ahsoka, when she puts her mind to something, will get it done. Sometimes he wonders if she got her brashness from Anakin or if it’s a quality she gained wholly on her own.

His ruminations are interrupted by Ahsoka swinging out of the trapdoor. Before she can even adjust to being vertical again, she’s turning around to shake her head.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. Some knocked over weapons, but that’s about it.”

He sighs. “They’re not here.”

“No.”

Ahsoka’s voice is dejected and her gaze is focused on the ground. He wants to dismiss it as concern for the twins but there’s something deeper to it.

“Ahsoka?”

“I let the Inquisitor go,” she says. “On the ship. I let her go because I didn’t think she could do any harm, and now she’s taken the twins.”

Obi-Wan forms about fifteen different sentences, all differing in structure and intent, before he settles on a deep sigh. “It wasn’t your fault, padawan.”

Ahsoka bristles. She’s never been the type for self-pity but this new age is changing them all. Obi-Wan must have more white hairs than ginger at this point. Ahsoka closes her eyes. The Force tightens around her and then releases, carrying her emotions with it.

“I know,” Ahsoka mutters. Obi-Wan sets a hand on her shoulder.

“We’ll find them,” he promises, more to himself than to her, “but not here.”

* * *

Rex had spent three years serving under Jedi but he can count the amount of times he’s been in the Temple on one hand.

They’d never actively forced him out of the Temple but they weren’t accommodating either. It was a sacred place for them, where Ahsoka and Anakin went to sleep and where the council decided the fate of millions of clones just like Rex. Still, even with his limited knowledge of how the Temple is supposed to feel, he can tell this is wrong.

Other clones line the halls, all wearing shiny new stormtrooper armour. Bly found him a set of new clone armour, while Cody dons his blue-striped stormtrooper armour. Lucky for him, Bly is the only one who gets to keep his old armour.

The Temple has been stripped of any trace of the Jedi. The only thing that remains is the general.

Anakin’s wing of the Temple is new, allocated to him after his brief stay on Kashyyyk, and none of the clones have seen it yet. They’ve been on regular duty for the past few weeks while Anakin did. . . .whatever he was doing. Rex isn’t entirely sure.

Cody pushes open the great doors and steps into a broad foyer. Towering staircases and great pillars dwarf the clones. But the calm Rex had hoped for, the calm the Jedi always brought, is missing. He sighs, a deep heave through his nose, and calls out.

“General?”

“In here,” Anakin responds. The deep rasp of his modulated voice makes Rex’s blood freeze. There’s something so distinctly wrong about the voice.

Rex shrugs that off and heads forwards, between two staircases. The room spreads into a simple receiving room. Rex pauses as he enters, Cody and Bly doing the same. Anakin arrives a few moments later, pulling off his helmet in the same second he enters the room. Cody jumps at his entrance.

“Nice place,” Rex jokes. The general only glances at him and nods. With a gloved hand, he gestures to the two plush couches in the middle of the room.

Awkwardly, the clones sit down. Rex pops off his bucket and sets it on the low table betweenthe couches. Cody tucks his helmet beside him and Bly sits it in his lap and leans on it. Anakin stops in front of the large floor to ceiling windows overlooking Imperial Centre. He mutters to himself. Rex glances at Cody, who stares back at him. Bly shares the same look.

Anakin’s breath hitches and he turns around. His eyes are sunken, considerably more so than they were two months ago. His eyes flick around the room and when he seems satisfied, he swallows and blinks lazily. Rex is about to ask about his health, because _fuck_ , the general is paler than Ventress, when Anakin cuts him off.

“Report,” he says curtly. Rex stutters a bit and Cody takes over for him.

“We’ve spent the last month serving with the Coruscant guard. Commander Bly has been serving with the 327th. There’s been no abnormal activity, and the Empire is as strong as it was last time we met.”

“And the—wait, _Bly?_ ” Anakin pauses in his pacing and zeroes in on Bly.

“We found him at 79’s,” Rex says.

“You were at 79’s?”

“We got him dechipped. Trust me, he hates the Empire as much as you do.”

Something darkens in Anakin’s gaze. “Why didn’t you tell me he would be here?”

“We weren’t sure if it was safe to contact you again, sir,” Rex says. Anakin scowls. Rex had seen that look during the war. It’d been directed at droids, at Separatists, but not it’s directed at him.

“You can’t just bring clones in here, Rex. Especially not when we’re talking about this,” Anakin groans “Were you even thinking?”

Rex frowns. He’d seen Anakin at his worst. Hadn’t he? The general had strayed dangerously close to immorality during the war, Rex had watched him, but something is distinctly off with him as he moves. He looks sickly and while his frame seems healthy, his face has grown skinnier and the air seems to crackle around him.

Ahsoka told him what Anakin was like in the Force—she said he burned, that he hurt to look at for too long—but this is different. This is wrong.

“Sir, are you alright?” Rex asks. Cody flinches beside him and Rex leans his leg into his brother’s, reminding him he’s here.

Anakin frowns. “Yes?”

“Of course, sir. You just seem. . . off.”

Anakin’s mouth twitches with an imitation of a smile. “Tough few months.”

“Yeah. Did something happen, or—”

“No,” Anakin responds too quickly. His gaze darkens and his voice takes on a new tone. “Did you hear something?”

He’s heard a lot of things from the clones. There are rumours about Vader being a droid, or asecret project of Sidious’. There are rumours that hit dangerously close to the truth. Ones where he’s a Jedi who fell during the war. There are even more outlandish theories about him being Sidious’ secret son, or grandson, which Rex would find funny if it didn’t fit so well.

“No,” Rex says in the same moment Bly speaks.

“I heard about Senator Taa.”

“What about him?”

Bly doesn’t have anything to say to that. Instead, Rex decides to switch the subject before things get too heated.

There’s something wrong with the general but Rex has learned that when Anakin doesn’t want to talk about something, he won’t. Pushing only makes him push back harder, and with the state he’s been in since Order 66, Rex doesn’t want to push him.

But something tells him this is different. Anakin isn’t just on edge, he’s off. If he was teetering on the edge of something during the war, he’s fallen off now. Rex sighs. He can talk about this later. Maybe the general will be more reasonable when Bly and Cody are gone.

“We were thinking about heading back to the base,” Rex says. “I’ve been gone too long.”

“Do you have a ship?” Anakin asks. Rex frowns. The _Prophet_ still hasn’t shown up, despite Rex spending many of his free hours searching for it, so at this point it’s safe to assume it’s being used for smuggling or some other kind of criminal act. Rex can’t blame them. It’s a good ship.

But that puts him at a disadvantage. He doesn’t have a ship and the clones aren’t paid, so he can’t buy one himself. He could wait until some clone legion docks near Dantooine and then hitch a ride to the planet, but that’s a long shot—and a risk he can’t afford to take. The longer he spends waiting, the more the rebellion suffers. Anakin’s survival gives them a new foothold in their fight against the Empire. He may not see it, but Anakin’s position gives him sway in every corner of the galaxy.

“Well, no. But I’ve been away for too long and the _Prophet_ isn’t going to show up. So we were thinking we could use one of the old Republic ships,” Rex explains his solution before the general can interject. Last time he’d brought this up Anakin had shot it down within seconds. Somehow, he doubts this time will be any different.

Cody and Bly shuffle next to him, unnervingly quiet. Rex is doing this on his own.

“I can’t give you a ship,” Anakin says. Rex sighs. He can, he just doesn’t want to. Whether it’s out of genuine concern for Rex’s safety or some misguided attempt at protecting Anakin’s own motives, it doesn’t matter. Getting to the rebellion is beneficial for all of them no matter how it’s spun. If they’re smart about it, it could kickstart the official beginning of the rebellion.

“Sir, with all due respect—”

“Rex, I fucking told you I can’t give you a ship,” Anakin snaps, pacing in front of the window. There’s a light brush against his throat and Rex’s heart jumps. The general wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t like that. He was a Jedi.

But the Jedi had turned before. General Krell had been respected, a celebrated warrior, and he had drenched himself in darkness and poison without remorse. But Anakin isn’t like that. He can’t be. Krell had been actively malicious. He’d driven clones to their death for no other reason than simple prejudice. Anakin had strayed close to the dark side—a concept he only knows about from Ahsoka’s long rambles—but he isn’t Krell. He isn’t Sidious. Rex tries to push that out of his mind and focuses on the important things.

“Why not?” he says.

“What?” Anakin spins around. Rex rises off of the couch and slowly moves towards the general. Rex treats the man as a wild animal and his movements mirror that. Slow, deliberate, carefully showing what he’s doing. There’s no room for error.

“If we can’t get a ship, I understand that, but I need to know why.”

“Imperial ships can be traced,” Anakin turns away from the window and shifts his body to face Rex. Despite his declining health the general maintains the same tall, lanky frame he had during the war.

“We can work around that,” Rex protests.

“How?”

“I’m sure there’s a way—you know ships, you know how they work, can’t you stop it from being tracked?”

“I know how big of a risk you want to take,” Anakin says. His voice is calm. It would’ve been better if he yelled at Rex, did something to emulate the brashness of the Jedi general Rex was used to.

“What are you risking? Everyday we spend on Imperial Centre is another day for the Rebellion to be discovered. What are you scared of?”

“You don’t know what Sidious will do!” Anakin snaps and the air drops below freezing. Rex’s heart slams against his ribcage, as if it were trying to escape. Rex steps back.

There’s something wrong with the general, something below surface level stress. Something Rex can’t fix, something he can’t help. He’s seen wartime nightmares, shellshock, brothers who lost limbs in the war and didn’t get prosthetics, but this is different. Something that pushes up against the grain of the galaxy, something that doesn’t belong, resides in the general now, and Rex can’t help them.

“I’m sorry. I was out of line, sir,” Rex mutters and steps back. Anakin’s chest heaves and he stares blankly ahead for a few seconds before his attention snaps back to Rex.

“Return to normal duty. I’ll call you if anything else happens,” Anakin raises a hand and his helmet flies to him. He snaps it into place. Rex doesn’t move until the general is out of the room, and even then he’s reluctant.

It’s a good thing he didn’t tell the general about Dantooine.

Anakin knows there’s a base but Rex had neglected to tell him about the location. Initially, it had just slipped his mind. He’d only remembered to mention it when he and Cody were looking for the _Prophet_ , but something held him back. After the brief conversation he had with Anakin there, it was like the information had simply fallen to the back of his mind.

Now, Rex doesn’t know what Anakin would do if he knew where it was. He says it’s too dangerous to give Rex a ship, but when it comes to his loved ones the general is anything but logical. If he knew where Ahsoka was, he’d be off to Dantooine within seconds.

For the first time, Rex is scared for Ahsoka. He’s been worried about her countless times but now he’s scared that she’ll expect her master and find something much worse. Rex doesn’t want to know what that will do to her.

Perhaps it’s for the best that they’re only on regular duty. Being around Anakin when he’s this volatile is both terrifying and gut wrenching. The war took so much from Rex, and now it’s taking one of his closest friends.

Cody and Bly have already put on their helmets and wait silently for Rex to make the first move. He crosses the floor to the couch. With trembling fingers Rex pulls his bucket on. He takes a moment to collect his thoughts.

“You heard the general,” Rex jokes half-heartedly, “Let’s return to normal duty.”

* * *

Gathering all of the rebels into one room takes a few hours. They’re scattered across the galaxy in tiny cells, and working out time differences and encryption under such sort notice is more difficult than Obi-Wan thought it would be.

He had some experience with those things, having been on the Jedi council, but their system had been maintained by workers, not the Jedi themselves. So while Obi-Wan and Ahsoka try to help, most of the credit for setting up the meeting goes to Padmé.

In the face of the twins’ disappearance, she’s thrown herself back into the Rebellion with renewed vigour. In the day since they’ve landed she’s organized plans and formalized the rebellion, turning it from a group of ragtag cast-offs to an organized effort with an actual name. They’ve called it the Alliance to Restore the Republic, but in passing he’s only ever heard the rebels refer to it as the Rebellion or the Alliance. He doubts Padmé is much different.

Packing so many rebels into the main conference room makes it smell like dirt and sweat. Obi-Wan’s been standing still for the better part of two hours waiting for everything to be ironed out and it’s starting to get boring.

As the lights dim in the room and the holotable flicks to life, his attention is renewed. Bail and Luminara’s flickery figures pop up first, follow by several other small ones, including Wolffe and several rebels Obi-Wan doesn’t recognize. Padmé, leaning over the holotable like a captain at the helm of a starship, takes a deep, shuddery breath before she begins.

“Everyone’s here?”

There’s a brief chorus of ‘here’s before Padmé nods and straightens up. “We’ve located Yoda along with two padawans and thirteen younglings. We’re searching for a suitable planet for them to stay, but for now we’re placing them here. Queen Apailana will back us when we make our move, but she won’t be able to directly support us without drawing Palpatine’s attention.”

Bail’s hologram swells and Obi-Wan watches as his face crinkles. “I have reason to believe Palpatine already suspects me?”

“What?” Padmé’s head snaps towards Bail’s hologram, “Did he say anything? Do anything?”

“No, but Vader did.”

Obi-Wan glances to his right, where Ahsoka stands with her arms crossed over her chest and shares a brief glance with her. The way things are going with both Luke and Leia and the Rebellion, Obi-Wan wouldn’t be surprised if they found themselves having to deal with Vader soon. Sith apprentices aren’t to be taken lightly.

“He. . . insinuated he had a mild distaste for the Empire,” Bail’s eyes flash. He lingers on the sentence, and the words carry the weight of several days worth of thinking.

“Do you think he’ll sympathize with the Alliance?” Padmé probes. Bail hesitates and Luminara takes that moment to step in.

“Vader may seem like an ally for now, but he is still a Sith. There are no reasoning with those who have fallen to the Dark Side,” she says, motioning with her arms as she does.

“Still, we will have to keep an eye on him,” Obi-Wan steps forward. The holotable scans him, presumably projecting him to the rebels not on Dantooine. “I agree with Master Unduli. We can’t put our trust in a Sith, but should something change, we can revisit.”

A few rebels in the back murmur but he purposefully blocks them out.

“Enough about Vader. We need to figure out how we’re moving forwards,” Padmé interjects. There's a fire burning in her eyes as she looks around the room. She’s daring someone to challenge her.

“We won’t be able to meet like this again for a while, so we have to figure it out now,” she states. Her speeches are almost always textbook. Introduce a cause, prove its importance, outline your plan, and persuade your audience.

Padmé glances down at a small datapad in her hands. The bright blue of the screen is reflected back in her eyes. “In order to overthrow the Empire we’ll need to focus on convincing the bureaucrats and the people. We’ll need credits, a strong military, and we need the will of the people. The Empire outguns us, but we outnumber them. Helping with planetary revolts, no matter how small, will be able to sway people to our side.”

Obi-Wan tilts his head. There’s no simple answer here. The Empire is a machine, yes, but it’s not as simple as stopping the cogs.

“The Senators are where it gets tricky,” Padmé says. She earns herself a small chuckle from some rebels—because freeing planets isn’t tricky enough—but she continues nonetheless.

“There are those who want to see the galaxy prosper—” Obi-Wan’s eyes flick to Bail, “—but the majority of the Senators are motivated by greed. To sway them we’ll need credits, or the promise of credits.”

“To hell with the Senate. We don’t need them,” the hologram of a slightly grey old man grows and Padmé’s expression hardens into stone.

“Without the support of the Senate, we won’t be able to hold on power. If we have the backing of the full Senate, the validity of our new government won’t be in question. Seizing power from Palpatine without the Senate’s say will make us another dictatorship.”

The old man narrows his eyes. A set of goggles rests upon his forehead and his skin is pockmarked with dark brown sunspots. His figure fizzles out, and Padmé returns to her speech.

“Bail, I trust you to take care of the Senate.”

“Of course, Senator Amidala.”

Padmé’s face twitches. Obi-Wan has heard her chastise dozens for calling her Senator when she isn’t one, and he imagine she must be getting tired of it.

“Ahsoka,” Padmé’s eyes shift to the Togruta, who snaps to attention, “I’ve been in contact with Senator Bonteri.”

Ahsoka cringes and Obi-Wan stifles an ill-timed laugh. Her crush on the Senator hadn’t gone unnoticed. It’d worried both him and Anakin while it had lasted but now it seems like a little crush Ahsoka doesn’t want to talk about.

“He has a shipment of blasters ready for the Wookiees on Kashyyyk. It’s my understanding that you’re familiar with him?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”

“Smuggle the weapons to the Wookiees. We’ll need Kashyyyk’s support.”

“Understood.”

Her gaze shifts somewhere in the crowd, “Zee, do you still have those contacts among the Chiss?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Get in touch with them.”

Padmé turns to another rebel, picking them out from amongst the crowd, and sending them off on various missions contacting one person or sending a transmission until there’s only two dozen people left, Ahsoka and Obi-Wan against them.

“I’ll be heading to Chandrila for a broadcast,” Padmé says, holding her breath as if she were waiting for a blow. Those left are among the more experienced of rebels, and while they tense in the Force they keep their faces still.

“If the people know we’re fighting back them they know there’s something out there for them. Chandrila has the infrastructure needed to encrypt and broadcast the signal.”

Obi-Wan bites his lip. While he understands the importance of propaganda and broadcasts, he doesn’t know if this is the best way to go about it. Palpatine has left Padmé alone because he doesn’t see her as a threat—a miscalculation on his part—but if she makes this broadcast he’ll send his hounds after her, and Obi-Wan doesn’t know if they can defend against that.

“Are you sure that’s a risk you want to take?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. Padmé’s head turns to look at him. Her upper lip curls.

“I’m sure.”

“Padmé, I think it would be better if someone else made the broadcast,” Bail says. HIs voice is faintly distorted by the hologram but the care in his words carries through.

“They’ll listen to me. They won’t listen to a stranger. I have to do this,” she says. Obi-Wan sighs.

“Padmé—”

“Don’t. Please,” she says, meeting his eyes. “I won’t change my mind.”

Ahsoka nudges him, her worry bouncing across their bond, but before he can speak his mind Padmé is hurrying to the next thing.

“Obi-Wan will find Luke and Leia,” she says, eyes glinting in the dark light. Obi-Wan nods. They both know that if he was assigned to anything else he’d just run off to find Luke and Leia anyways. Ahsoka, for all her spunk and ferocity, has more self-control in those aspects. Still, she pouts a bit.

“Are you sure that’s a good use of our resources?”

Padmé’s head spins to find the person speaking and Obi-Wan zeroes in on their Force presence within seconds. A tall Togruta woman with elegantly curved montrals and a blaster too big for her hands shuffles through the crowd.

“We only have so many Jedi. Sending them on a wild goose chase is a waste,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. Her lekku trail down to her waist in thin, carefully segmented stripes of deep red and white.

“It’s worth it,” Padmé trails a hand on the holotable as she walks around it, towards the Togruta.

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t look for them, I’m just saying that sending a Jedi after them might not be the best choice here,” the Togruta insists. Padmé looks like she’s about to boil over, so Obi-Wan quickly crosses the floor towards the two rebels.

“I agree with Padmé’s idea. Finding the Amidala twins is more important than it seems,” He places a hand on Padmé’s should and speaks in calming tones. While he’s not using a mind trick, he makes sure to lace the Force around his words in an effort to calm them.

The Togruta raises her round facial markings. “Care to explain?”

Internally, Obi-Wan sighs. Still, he keeps his face a simple mask of geniality. “Their survival is essential to the Jedi Order. Should the Empire hold onto them, I have no doubt that Palpatine will instruct them in the dark side of Force. That possibility is not to be taken lightly.”

Of course, that’s only part of it. Obi-Wan can argue their importance to the Jedi, to the Rebellion, to the galaxy all day if he has to, but the only fact he really cares about is their personal importance to him.

The Jedi don’t follow traditional familial roles, trading parents for masters and children for padawans. His own relationship with Anakin was fuzzy, and Obi-Wan prefers to define it somewhere between father and brother, but no matter what it makes the twins family. Luke and Leia are as important to him as Ahsoka and Anakin. He has a personal duty to raise them. Besides, he’s not likely to simply let them die after risking everything to bring them to safety on Tatooine.

It’s a personal issue for him, and he’s simply lucky that he can frame it as duty.

“Still. . .” the Togruta woman trails off and Ahsoka steps in, guiding the Togruta away from Padmé and Obi-Wan.

“Trust me, we’ve thought this through. Master Kenobi will find them and have them back in time to help the Rebellion. It’ll be like he was never gone: that’s how good he is,” she comforts. Ahsoka smiles, baring her slightly pointed canine teeth. The other Togruta tilts her head, and her body language changes slightly. Ahsoka pats her once on the shoulder and that seems to send her off. As she leaves, the Togruta glances back at Padmé and Obi-Wan once more. Obi-Wan smiles simply.

Padmé steps away from him as soon as the rebel has left the room. She clears her throat, regaining her air of confidence, and turns to address the rest of the room. “Any questions?”

There’s a long silence as everyone shuffles in place. Padmé lets out a long breath through her nose.

“If you don’t have your own assignment, then you’re staying and protecting the Dantooini compound. You’re dismissed.”

The rebels file out. They fill the small conference room with the sound of soft footsteps and low whispers. As each hologram fizzles out the room becomes darker and darker. Ahsoka moves to head out, Obi-Wan trailing behind her.

“Not you two,” Padmé calls after them. Ahsoka turns around. Her eyes catch Obi-Wan’s, and he nods slightly in reassurance.

“Is everything alright?” Obi-Wan asks conversationally. Padmé stares flatly as she flicks on the lights in the room. He curses himself for the stupid question.

“What do you know about Vader?” Padmé says lightly as she flicks off the holotable.

He frowns. “Not much. Why do you ask?”

The Sith Lord has been as implacable as Sidious. Most of their information comes from Bail or from official Imperial sources. Everything they know has been gleamed from occasional sightings and rumours—some of which feel too absurd to be true, like Vader being Sidious’ son.

“If the Empire has the twins then they’ll be taken to Vader, won’t they?” Padmé straightens up. Without the dim blue light of the holotable, the stress is much more visible. Her hair is pulled into a bun of some kind, but it’s frayed and messy. Her eyes are bleary and the mascara is smudged.

“Most likely,” Ahsoka approaches Padmé while Obi-Wan stays still.

“So what do we know about him?”

“Nothing,” Obi-Wan sighs. It’s not the answer she wants to hear, judging by how she presses her lips into a line. “Other than him being a Sith Lord, we have barely anything on Vader.”

“What about what Bail said?”

Obi-Wan raises a hand to stroke his chin, “About his distaste for the Empire?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s not entirely reliable. Besides, Vader may very well be sympathetic towards the Rebels but violent towards the Jedi. He is still a Sith.”

“But he can be reasoned with, can he not?”

He meets her intense gaze and shakes his head. Padmé’s breath hitches, and she wraps her arms around herself. Her breathing is somewhat shaky but her face stays calm. She nods at his words.

“I know that’s not what you want to hear, but he’s a Sith. They won’t think twice about betraying you if the rewards are great enough. Trust me, I know from experience,” Ahsoka says. Padmé sighs.

“And what you said about Vader training them? That’s true?”

“Yes. Palpatine once kidnapped Force-sensitive infants for training during the war. Vader is most likely following in his master’s footsteps,” Obi-Wan leans against the holotable. The circular room looks much smaller when the lights are on. Less cluttered. In the light, the distance between them and Padmé feels like the distance between Alderaan and Tatooine.

“But he won’t kill them?” Padmé’s voice grows deeper as she tries to push her tears down. Obi-Wan has heard that exact tone before, though never from her.

“He shouldn’t try,” Ahsoka sets her hand on Padmé’s shoulder. “We’ll find them.”

Padmé’s chest heaves for a few seconds before she pulls Ahsoka into a tight hug. Obi-Wan stays standing, unwilling to interrupt the moment for them.

“We’ll find them,” Ahsoka murmurs, only barely loud enough for Obi-Wan to hear.

After a few moments, Padmé lets go. She nods to Obi-Wan and smiles at Ahsoka before brushing past them and heading out into the hallway.

When it’s just him and Ahsoka, Obi-Wan sighs for the thirtieth time that day. Overthrowing Separatist governments had been difficult enough when they were backed by the Galactic Republic, and now they have none of the numbers or credits they had before.

As a bonus, they now have to deal with two Sith Lords not even bothering to hide themselves.

Obi-Wan glances at Ahsoka, who is staring blankly at the white floor. His eyebrows furrow.

“You’re thinking of something,” he says. “Is it a plan or a question.”

Ahsoka raises a white marking, and in a deadpan voice, says, “What gave it away?”

“You’re too predictable, my dear padawan.”

“I was thinking about Maul,” she says, pacing the floor. “On Mandalore.”

He waits for her to continue before he says anything. He’d never heard the full story of Mandalore, between Order 66 and the Rebellion.

“He said something,” Ahsoka pauses in her pacing and chews the side of her cheek. “About Anakin.”

“What about him?”

Ahsoka’s eyes search the ground before she turns her body to face him. “He said Sidious had plans for him. For Anakin to become his apprentice. I didn’t think it was true, but with Vader. . .”

“Ahsoka. What are you suggesting?”

Ahsoka shuffles in her spot, suddenly looking very much like a younger, wilder version of herself, before she says, “What if Maul was right? What if Anakin isn’t dead?”

Obi-Wan lets her words settle before he takes the time to process them. First, Maul told Ahsoka something on Mandalore. A conversation that centred around Obi-Wan’s apprentice and Sidious’ intention for Anakin to become his apprentice.

That much makes sense. Sidious’ insistence on meeting with Anakin had never sat right with Obi-Wan, but he had been a mere knight them. Making his protestations to the council only did so much, and telling an already rebellious Anakin to stop meeting with the Chancellor of the Force-forsaken Republic wouldn’t work in any reality.

Knowing of Sidious’ true allegiance makes his meetings with Anakin seem malicious. Anakin was a Jedi of great skill, one that, in many ways, had grown to surpass Obi-Wan. His potential for power was greater than any Jedi before him, and Obi-Wan had no doubts that when Anakin gained complete mastery over the Force, he would be remembered as the greatest of the Jedi. But he had been volatile. Quick to action, too attached, too emotional. He had come close to the dark side, but Obi-Wan cannot imagine him falling.

“If he is Vader,” he tries to keep his voice from wavering, “then Anakin is already dead.”

Ahsoka frowns. Obi-Wan brushes against the dead bond with Anakin. Having it severed had been so sudden and so deliberate that he wasn’t able to register the shock of it for a few hours. Unlike his bond with Qui-Gon, which had disappeared altogether, Anakin’s bond remains. He sighs.

“You felt him die Ahsoka.”

“I-I know.”

“He is better off dead than a Sith apprentice, no matter how much it hurts.”

* * *

He hates the Temple.

Not only has it been ripped to shreds in Sidious’ efforts to hide the Jedi, but he feels like it taunts him. He’s spent so many years of his life belittled and dismissed within the building. It just took him some time away to realize it.

The rooms Sidious gave him are nice enough. They’re close to the atrium of the Temple—Sidious’ throne room—while still making him feel impossibly isolated. It’s his punishment after killing Senator Taa.

Of course, there had been other punishments, but he’s grown used to the lightning and the Force chokes. It doesn’t get any better. Some nights he looks at his back in the mirror, and it seems as if the lightning itself has been etched onto his skin.

At least the Temple is somewhat comfy. His ‘reception’ room, for lack of a better word, is comfortable. It’s nothing special but it’s not like he uses it often.

Then again, this is the second time he’s heading there this week. First with Rex, which had been an exercise in patience, and now he’s been called there by a droid. In all honesty, he doesn’t know what to expect. He’d cut the droid off before they could finish. But perhaps the distraction waiting for him will be worth the time.

He steps into the receiving room, purposefully enunciating his footsteps. His guest is waiting, her posture perfect, and Anakin suppresses a groan.

Third Sister is meant to be training with the Inquisitorius, isn’t she? He can’t exactly place where she’s supposed to be, but he knows it isn’t here. Dealing with Inquisitors is annoying enough on its own, much less Third Sister.

“Lord Vader,” she says, bowing deeply. Under his helmet, Anakin rolls his eyes. With any luck this’ll be over quickly.

“What is it, Inquisitor?”

Third Sister steps to the side and his attention is drawn to the two off white prams hovering above his floor. Anakin sighs. Is this another one of her ploys? Her revenge?

“I’ve found potential candidates for the Harvester program,” she explains, crossing her arms behind her back. “I was told you’re overseeing it.”

“Ah, yes. The Harvester program,” he parrots back to her. Fuck. He’d read about that, right? In one of his briefings?

Third Sister waves her hand and the prams slide open. Peeking out from the shadows are two children, each bright-eyed and babbling. He’s never been very good with children. It’s a miracle he hasn’t killed one yet.

“Inquisitor,” he asks, “What do you know about the Harvester program?”

Anakin uses the same tone of voice he would’ve used if he was quizzing a Jedi youngling. He’s not sure if it’ll work, but if it does he’ll hide the fact that he has no idea what she’s talking about.

Third Sister lifts her chin and recites, “The Harvester program is a special gathering and training program created by the Emperor with the intention of finding Force-sensitive younglings and teaching them in the ways of the dark side, effectively creating an army of specially trained dark side adepts that will fill the ranks of the Inquisitorius.”

She finishes with a flourish, and Anakin nods slowly. “Well done.”

That’s not exactly for the best.

Now that she’s mentioned it, he does remember the Harvester program, if only faintly. During the war, Cad Bane had stolen a holocron which Darth Sidious used to decipher a coded list of Force-sensitive children. He’d tracked the younglings to Mustafar with Ahsoka, and while they recovered the younglings, they never found Sidious.

This must be the remnants of that program. And Third Sister intends to have these children forced into it.

“The Harvester program is under your purview, right?” she says. Anakin nods. He’s Sidious’ apprentice. Even if he’s not directly responsible for the program now, he can do what he wants with it.

Anakin steps closer to the prams. His cape brushes the ground. Imperial Centre’s setting sun makes the shadows stretch to twice their usual length. The children shrink back as he nears. He stops a few feet in front of them. They look healthy enough.

“How old are they?” Anakin doesn’t bother turning to face Third Sister. Instead, he keeps his gaze focused on the children. There’s something about them that’s just. . . offputting.

“Seven months, my lord. Healthy. The one on the right is Luke, and the one on the left is Leia. Male and female, respectively.”

Anakin’s gaze flicks to Luke and then to his sister. They’re both large babies, but Luke has a bit more chub on him. His hair is blonde, like Anakin’s was when he was a child, but his sister has dark curls. Luke shrinks back in his pram, his little hands clutching his feet, but Leia just stares at him.

“Where did you find them?”

Third Sister’s breath hitches and her shields tighten. Anakin continues to loom over the twins.

“Geonosis. Two weeks ago.”

“Geonosis?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he snorts. “I doubt they’d want to grow up on that dustball.”

Granted, living under a Sith Lord isn’t much better, but at the very least they’ll have what they need to survive here. And if Anakin can help them, he will.

Third Sister laughs awkwardly and Anakin tilts his head. Leia tilts hers with him.

“Did you run a midichlorian count?” he says. He needs to know how interested Sidious will be in these children. If he knows that, he’ll be able to protect them better.

“Yes, my lord. Both children have an estimated midichlorian count of around fifteen thousand.”

Fuck.

That’s going to make things a lot more difficult. Anakin knows Sidious can replace him at any turn, and if he has two apprentices waiting in the wings, trained in the dark side since birth, Anakin won’t be able to fail any longer.

Anakin sinks into the Force. It twists around him and once he’s oriented himself, he reaches for the twins.

As he nears them, heat spreads over him. Burning heat. Like the singe of a lightsaber, or the burn of a star. He flinches back, but pushes forwards nonetheless.

When he finds Luke reaching back, something in the Force clicks.

He can’t explain his instant attachment to them. They’re only children and when he’s in such a precarious situation Anakin can’t get distracted. But they’re only children. Sidious’ cruelty has no place in their childhood.

The Force hums in agreement and Anakin sighs.

He could leave them with Third Sister under strict orders not to harm them. But she’s a child, an unstable one at that, and he doubts she’ll take well to becoming a nanny. None of the other Inquisitors are even considerations. Second Sister would kill him if she could, Fifth Brother is too stupid to even think about that, and Seventh Sister is displaying a strange brand of sadism.

So it seems like he has to take care of them himself.

“Where would you like me to take them, my lord?” Third Sister asks. Anakin withdraws from the Force. He forgot she was there. He places a hand on Leia’s pram and turns to Third Sister. The Inquisitor stands tall, the dramatic lighting from the sunset making the red accents on her armour look like molten lava.

“They will stay with me,” he says. He pushes the right amount of persuasion into his words, both with the Force and with authority. Third Sister hesitates slightly, but she nods anyway.

“Do they have parents?” he wonders out loud.

“Not that I could see,” she responds. “There was a protector, but he was Mon Calamari.”

Then someone is trying to protect them. Somehow, whether due to their power or their heritage, the children were expected to be attacked. There was enough worry for them to have a dedicated bodyguard.

He doesn’t know if that should worry or excite him. There’s an inkling of hope in his chest. The only people who would need to protect Force-sensitives would be Jedi. On a planet like Geonosis, where its human population is virtually non existent, it must’ve been a hideout. No parents, but a protector. Jedi.

Ahsoka.

“Did you find a base nearby?”

Leia grumbles, slamming back in her seat. The pram shudders, but Anakin keeps a firm grasp on it nonetheless. Through the Force, her tiredness feel as potent as his own.

“No, my lord.”

He nods and waves a hand at Third Sister. “I expect more work like this in the future, Inquisitor. You’re dismissed.”

She bows before turning and hurrying out of the darkening room. Anakin listens as her footsteps fade before he turns to the twins now under his care.

“Looks like it’s just us for a while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone say bye bye third sister 👋
> 
> OKAY THIS TOOK SIGNIFICANTLY LONGER THAN EXPECTED BUT I CAN EXPLAIN. 
> 
> to make a long story short, this update took so long because my computer broke. it's still at the apple store, as they have to order parts and then replace it which is going to take a while, meaning i have to write on my phone (my thumbs are in PAIN). 
> 
> i'm sorry i left so many comments unanswered; answering comments on my phone is nigh impossible, meaning that until i get my computer back, i won't be responding to them. i still read about 80% of them, but my parents monitor my internet browsing so i can't check too often :(. also if you followed my old twitter that one got hacked along with my email (dw, i was able to save my ao3 account before anything happened) so uh. maybe follow the new one!
> 
> my main account, where i post my star wars thoughts and just generally scream, is [elsamidalas](https://twitter.com/elsamidalas)  
> however, i do have a writing specific account! it's technically just my old account but i'm moving all my writing stuff there! for polls relating to this fic and others, snippets of the upcoming chapter, and any updates on the next fic, follow [sxpphicella](https://twitter.com/sxpphicella)
> 
> i can try to write this next chapter on my phone, but unless i get my computer back soon, the next chapter will be a long wait :(. because of that, i am once again leaving you with a chapter summary.
> 
> "Obi-Wan follows the twins' trail. Anakin adjusts to having two children living with him. Ahsoka smuggles supplies to the Kashyyyk rebellion with the help of a pirate.""
> 
> drink some water and make sure you go to sleep at a proper time tonight >:( i love you all <3
> 
> POSTED 07/08/2020


	16. Chasing Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin tries to get used to having two children in his care. Ahsoka smuggles weapons to the Kashyyyk Rebellion with a pirate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for vomit and violence, coming at the end of ahsoka’s section !

If Ahsoka tilts her head just right, the abyss around her looks like a gaping mouth, ready to swallow her whole at the right moment. Tiny stars form the outline of the head while a nearby asteroid field makes up the bulk of the body. A scattering of stars conjures up pointed teeth and two nearby planets make up its eyes.

Ahsoka tilts her head the other way, and the illusion fades. The cold floor of her ship presses into her back. She sighs and pushes herself up, muscles twinging in protest as she does. She huffs and stands up, glancing at herself in the transperisteel viewport. Her montrals grow ever taller, the blue stripes on her lekku growing ever thinner. Ahsoka doesn’t know what her parents look like, so she has no way to predict how her lekku and montrals might grow over the years.

If she doesn’t die of boredom first, that is.

Her contact is supposed to be meeting her here, a few hyperspace minutes away from Kashyyyk. She has the weapons they’ll be delivering to Wookiee rebels, and they have the means of transport.

There’s only so many people it could be. The Empire’s operation on Kashyyyk is sprawling, its interest even more so, and any bounty hunter stupid enough to take the contract the Rebellion offered is either stupid or experienced.

Ahsoka just has to wait to find out which.

Her lightsabers hang heavy at her hips. After her exile she grew used to their absence. Getting them back from Anakin was strange, like listening to her favourite song after not hearing it for years. She remembered the weight of them, the heat as the lit blades passed by her face, but having them in her hands felt unreal. She buried them in the wreckage of the star destroyer along with—

She buried them.

And she was used to her electrobatons, or getting used to them, and having lightsabers again was strange. Every time she picked them up it felt like they would melt away in her hands like ashes on the wind. But they were real.

The crystals inside of them are still healing, but they hum to life as her hand drifts over her hilts. She’s not entirely sure how she feels about the design, but it works. That’s all that matters right now.

Ahsoka twirls them in her hands as she stares out of the viewport. They don’t have as much time as she’d like. The Imperial Inspectors only work for so long, and the longer they take, the more Wookiees die on Kashyyyk.

She reaches for her tiny mounted comlink just as a behemoth of a ship drops out of hyperspace. Its lights flick on a few moments later, brilliant white and searing. Ahsoka covers her eyes before she can even get a good look at the ship itself. A few minutes later, the ground underneath her feat starts to shake as her ship slides towards the newcomer.

Ahsoka peeks out at the ship. Tractor beam technology had only been common among the Republic and its Jedi, never the populace. As the doors close around her ship, Ahsoka braces herself. Pirates are common here.

Raucous laughter drifts down the halls. Artificial gravity kicks in and Ahsoka sways on her feet for a second too long.

She’s on her ass when the doors of her own ship are pried open, her captors casting long shadows into her ship. Ahsoka twists herself onto her stomach and then pushes up into a low stance. Her lightsabers fly from her hips to her hands, ignited with a single click.

The low buzz of her blades cuts down the laughter from the pilots. One of them nudges the other. Ahsoka squints at his face. Surely the Empire has a pretty price on her head. Bounty hunters won’t be far off.

But instead, the figure that comes strolling out from the crowd is familiar.

Ahsoka narrows her eyes. “I thought you would’ve retired,” she taunts, letting her voice carry through the ship. “That, or you’d been killed.”

“Too early for that, my friend,” Hondo tuts, stopping in front of her lightsabers. “Put those away and then we can have a civil conversation.”

“Like the civil conversation we had last time you kidnapped me?” Ahsoka snipes back. Her story with the younglings and Ilum is an anecdote now, but she still holds some kind of grudge against Hondo. Even worse, threatening to sell her was probably low on his list of offences.

It’s a miracle he found her here. Out of all the places she could’ve been, all the places Hondo could’ve been, his crew found their way here, and now she’s trapped. Her contact is no where in sight, and at this point it’s probably better that they don’t show up.

“Yes, that kind of conversation,” Hondo smiles his self-satisfied smile, and turns back around into the crowd. When Ahsoka stays in her spot, hands clutching her lightsabers like they were lifelines, Hondo sighs.

“We have work to do, Jedi,” he says, a few seconds before a slow smile spreads across his face. “Any longer and I’ll raise my fee.”

“Your fee?”

“My fee,” he repeats. Hondo’s eyes are magnified by the goggles he wears, making it impossible to miss the mischievous glance he shares with one of his men. “And I’m sure your Rebellion doesn’t have many credits to spare.”

Ahsoka holds her stance for a few moments more. Hondo’s crew shuffles, and she waits for the twitch of a trigger finger, the outline of a concealed blaster, but finds nothing. Hondo’s made his career on lies. She doesn’t expect him to stop now.

Still. Sending her Hondo Ohnaka is exactly the kind of shit Bonteri would do.

Ahsoka’s lightsabers fizzle out and she stands up slowly, waiting for any sudden movements from the Weequay.

“Come, girl,” Hondo motions. Ahsoka makes her way across the bridge of her ship and into the crowd. Hondo’s distinctive coat and hat mark him amongst the rest of the crew and she gravitates towards him. Even without it, she’s sure that his Force presence alone would be enough to single him out.

“Where’s Lux?” she asks, clipping her lightsabers back onto her hips. Hondo motions vaguely at her before he sets off down the hallway. She follows him through a series of tight turns, waiting for him to answer her question.

“Ohnaka, where’s Bonteri?”

“The senator?” Hondo glances back as he ducks under a pipe running across the hallway.

Ahsoka ducks under the same pipe, waving a hand in front of herself to clear away the steam rising from it, and says, “Yes, Senator Bonteri.”

“Oh. Lingering by the bridge,” Hondo says. He chuckles to himself, and Ahsoka raises a painted eyebrow.

“You must’ve made quite the impression. He’s been asking about you.”

Ahsoka surpasses a groan. That’s supposed to be a compliment, isn’t it?

She hasn’t talked to Lux since the whole Onderon debacle, and she’s not sure she want to. Her memories of him are tangled with her memories of the war and the atrocities of it and her exodus from the Order. While she heard of him on the Senate, there was never anything of note. Passing mentions, at best.

As Hondo leads her through the maze-like ship, Ahsoka tries to prepare to see him. But as the pirate leads her onto the bridge, her honeyed words die on her tongue.

Lux is taller, but he looks the exact same as he did on Onderon. His face splits in a wide smile—tight-lipped, though—when his eyes land on her. “Ahsoka!”

“Hello, Lux,” Ahsoka presses her lips together. At least he’s not wearing the same thing he wore on Onderon. Their situation is almost reminiscent of those days, rebellion and all. She just hopes this time she’ll be able to keep her personal feelings out of him.

Not that she has any for Lux. Those died eons ago when she left the order. Seeing him feels as close to her past as she can get, but it also feels wrong. She’s not the same Ahsoka she was when she left—her months alone hardened her, drew out something new inside of her. And while she’s sure it’s not bad, she doesn’t know if it’s good either.

But being rude won’t win her anything. So Ahsoka smiles at him, moves around Hondo and the other Weequays in the room to stand closer to him. Hondo collapses into a worn chair near the back of the room. He leans back in his chair and swings his legs up to rest on the holotable in front of him.

Hopefully, she’ll only be working with him this one time.

“Alright, Jedi—”

“—not a Jedi—”

“—I’m sure you have some little plan cooked up, but you’re using _my_ ship and _my_ crew, so you’re following _my_ rules.”

Ahsoka snorts. Hondo’s crew stares expectantly, as if they expect an actual answer and not a mere snort. Despite their tattered white shirts and too-short pants, they press in on her the same way the Jedi council used to. She clears her throat and nods, trying to appear as serious as she can.

“Of course, Ohnaka,” she smiles for a second. It’s an attempt at placation, at best, but it seems to work for now.

* * *

Ahsoka presses the blaster deeper into the box, carefully tallying each weapon she’s hidden inside of it. They have minutes before they reach Kashyyyk, and her and Lux are still struggling to pack up the rest of the supplies. Why Hondo doesn’t help, she doesn’t know.

Instead of grabbing the box top, Ahsoka raises her arm and lets it float slowly over to her. It’s heavier than most objects she pulls with the Force, though not too massive as to tire her out. It bobs over to her, and when it lands in her waiting hands, Ahsoka is suddenly all too aware of Lux’s gaze following her.

She lines the top up with the waiting box and presses down until she hears a firm click. She has to get this exactly right for Hondo’s plan to work, which includes the boxes. Something about them being reinforced so as to escape Imperial scanners, though Ahsoka was distracted by Lux’s complete lack of shielding, as well as some of the Weequay pirate’s more explicit thoughts regarding their plans on Kashyyyk.

The simplicity of the moldy storage room is almost welcomed. Almost. The black rot covering the corners of the room isn’t encouraged, nor the loud groaning of the engine room next door. But the monotony of packing is comforting, at the very least.

Ahsoka turns her box around and checks for any cracks. Lux is silent, staring, while she does so. She lets his gaze slip off of her. In the past month alone, she’s been through worse.

Like the twins.

She can only hope Obi-Wan is close to finding them. He’s a good tracker, and quietly determined. He doesn’t have Anakin’s brashness, nor his piloting ability, but he has a silver tongue and the fighting skills to match. If anyone is going to find the twins, it’d be him.

But before he left for Mustafar, they made a deal. Obi-Wan’s mission would most likely take him to Imperial Centre—though he didn’t acknowledge that—which meant Sidious. Which meant Vader. And for his protection as well as hers, they’d agreed to keep their minds shielded as long as they were away from Dantooine. Having that connection between her and Obi-Wan suddenly go dead was jarring, to say the least, and whenever she thought of the twins or of Obi-Wan she couldn’t help but run a curious finger up the bond and see if she would receive a response.

She never did, but she kept trying anyways.

While her fingers work on autopilot, checking over the box, her mind falls into the Force and stretches out towards Anakin’s old place.

The bond, once braided from trust and love, is severed cleanly. The moment it snapped is still fresh in her mind, seared into memory, and she can’t understand the suddenness of it. Anakin was there. He was in pain, turmoil, and his shields kept failing and rising, but he was there. Alive. And then, in the space of one heartbeat, he was gone.

“It’s good to see you, Ahsoka,” Lux says, his polished accent cutting through the air. Ahsoka would’ve jumped out of shock but she forces herself to remain calm. It’s not often that someone catches her off guard.

“You too, Bonteri,” she replies robotically, not caring to turn and look at him. She doesn’t need him thinking there’s more to her gazes than there is. Not when there’s this much at stake.

Ahsoka squats low and pulls the box into her arms. She can just hold onto it, but a single bump and she’s done. And who knows what might happen if the weapons inside of the box go off?

“I can help with that,” Lux is suddenly there, next to her, and Ahsoka stiffens. His fingers ghost over her bicep, and Ahsoka jerks away from him.

“I’m good, thank you,” she says, pushing past him and out of the room. She thought he would’ve found another girl by now.

“Ahsoka,” Lux calls, just as she reaches the doorway. Ahsoka squeezes her eyes shut and lowers her shields, allowing her annoyance (which pulls and tugs at her) to drift off into the Force. This isn’t the time for this.

But despite the burn in her arms and the fact that they’ll drop out of hyperspace any minute now, Ahsoka sets the box back onto on of the tables, takes a deep breath, and turns to Lux.

“What?”

His dark eyes flicker, and he steps forward. “I’m sorry. For Onderon.”

Ahsoka raises an eyebrow. Isn’t the Senate supposed to make someone more articulate, not less? She forces herself to smile, “Thanks.”

“No, really. I should’ve been honest. I wasn’t. I assumed, with you being a Jedi, that you weren’t. . . open to that,” Lux says. He talks with his hands now, she notes.

He’s right. She wasn’t supposed to be open—no Jedi were—but if he’d asked, she would’ve followed him out of the Order and into the Senate. He could’ve asked the world of her, and Ahsoka, high on freedom and a want for affection, would’ve tried.

She closes her eyes. The ship whirs its way through hyperspace, and the engine room nearby makes the storage unbearably hot. That’s why she’s sweating.

But instead of explain it all to him, Ahsoka just says, “I wasn’t.”

Lux’s face flickers, warm skin turning pale for a few moments.

It’s not as simple as he wants it to be. Lux wants a clear cut answer, a yes or a no. He’s a Senator. To him, everything is as simple as right or wrong, innocent or guilty. He speaks in polarization, not in shades.

But she does.

So when Lux finally speaks, she can’t help but pick out the tones of his voice. “I heard you left the Order.”

Ahsoka tilts her head, lekku swishing slightly as she does. “I did.”

“Then. . .” Lux trails off. He wants her to complete his sentence, prove to him that she does want him, if only on a superficial level, and her gaze softens. In another galaxy, without the war to complicate everything, they could’ve been good friends. Lux was the only real person her age she’d met that wasn’t a politician or a warrior. But everything is different now.

So Ahsoka crosses her arms over her chest and breathes deeply, forcing herself to look him in the eyes as she speaks.

“Lux. I’m sorry, but I don’t see you that way. I might’ve—once—but I’m not like that now,” she whispers, watching his face for any reaction. When she finds none, she continues on. “I enjoyed your friendship while I was in the Order, and when this is all over I’ll enjoy it then. But it has to remain a friendship.”

Lux sighs. The sound is almost killed by the drone of the engines, but she picks it out anyways.

“I understand. Thank you, Ahsoka. For everything,” he says, grinning at her. Ahsoka can’t help but grin back.

“You’re welcome.”

Ahsoka turns and pulls the box off of the table, adjusting its weight in her arms, just as the ship shudders out of hyperspace and above Kashyyyk.

“Right on schedule,” Lux says, pushing past her. He follows flocks of Weequay pirates down the hallways. No alarms sound overhead but they move anyways. Hondo, as morally ambiguous as he is, does know how to handle his men. Ahsoka trundles after them. the ship should be landing any second now, and with it, their weapons.

She nudges past a pirate and into the cargo hold, setting her box on top of countless others. Looking around the room, she smiles. It’s not what the Republic would call impressive, but it’s enough for the Wookiees. Enough for now.

Now, the difficult part.

Hondo said he left her some clothes in here, which Ahsoka finds and grabs within seconds. It’s not much, only a threadbare jacket, but it’ll do. She pulls it over her bare arms and tucks her lightsabers into its inner pockets. He left her a pair of goggles, which don’t really fit over her eyes, but she snaps them into place on her montrals anyways. Ahsoka doesn’t need any Inquisitors finding her this time.

The cargo hold groans as its wide doors pull themselves open. Ahsoka snaps her goggles into place. The loud crack they make from hitting her flesh is hidden by the slide of the metal door, but she still hisses in pain.

 _Funny how that’s worse than a blaster bolt_.

The cargo bay doors open to a pack of well-dressed pirates, each picking up a box and slamming it down on the Imperial inspection table. Ahsoka’s breath catches.

Getting caught means losing the supplies and their lives. Ahsoka has come too far to die, and having their supplies demolished meaning the fledgling Wookiee resistances perishes before it actually begins.

Most of them had been slaves in sap refineries before they escaped. Ahsoka sets her jaw and thinks of Anakin, of her time on Zygerria, and promises herself that the Wookiees will not lose their freedom again.

Ahsoka grabs the box she just loaded into the bay and hauls her ass over to where the pirates have assembled. Kashyyyk is lush with leaves the size of her and megafauna to match, but the Empire’s inspection grounds is a flat dirt plain with clonetroopers guarding the perimeter. There’s a bullet train leading away from the inspection base in the north, as far away from their ship as it could be.

“Next,” the Inspector calls. Hondo’s first pirate drops his box in front of her, and Ahsoka leans past the other pirates to watch. Failure here is failure everywhere.

The Inspector, a severe woman with a tight bun, raises an eyebrow at the Weequay himself. She picks over his clothing—surprisingly respectable, given Hondo—and his posture, curling her lip when she sees something she doesn’t like.

Ahsoka shifts from foot to foot, adjusting her grip on her box.

She doesn’t dare to look into the Force. If there’s no threat then she won’t gain anything from her insight. If there is, and she reaches into the Force, then it’ll find her. So instead, she rocks back and forth as the Inspector curls her lip and scans the boxes.

When Ahsoka arrives at the tiny inspection booth and sets down her box, she smiles. Wide and toothy, the same smile she always gave to Anakin and Obi-Wan to try and get them to forgive her innocent screw-ups, but the Inspector raises a thin, barely there eyebrow.

“What is a Togruta like you doing with a these men?” the Inspector asks as she runs a red scanner over Ahsoka’s box.

A thousand explanations, most of them dramatic enough to be holodramas, rise, but before she can settle on one Hondo slings an arm around her and smiles.

“This is my daughter.”

The Inspector blinks. “Your daughter.”

“Yes. Her mother—Force bless her—was a very troubled woman. You see, her homeland was plagued by Akul attacks and bandit raids. I was young then. Untethered.”

Hondo lets a dreamy look cross his face and Ahsoka stifles a laugh as he continues, “She had a young daughter—my dear Kiki here—and of course, when we fell in love, I couldn’t leave her behind. It was a quick wedding—love at first sight—or so I thought,” Hondo said.

The Inspector sighs and crosses her arms over her chest. The troopers guarding her and the perimeter shuffle. Ahsoka watches as they edge closer. They might just be trying to hear Hondo, but they might be see something the Inspector doesn’t.

“But, you see, she lied. She had a friend, Karl, that she claimed was just there to help her. I should’ve known. When I came home two weeks after our wedding to surprise her and found that bitch—”

“I understand, sir,” the Inspector says. Her gaze is like the scanner she clutches, picking through Ahsoka’s appearance. “You and your daughter may leave.”

Ahsoka slides her box off of the table and heads towards the train with Hondo at her side. When they’re out of earshot of the Inspector, she nudges him. “Quick thinking.”

“I am an artist, not-Jedi.”

“Thinking of someone in particular? A certain bounty hunter?” Ahsoka prods. She stopped trying to figure out what happened between Aurra Sing and Hondo years ago, but she always wondered.

Hondo’s face darkens, and he looks away from her. “That is a story for another day, my friend.”

Ahsoka laughs. She’s only a few feet from the train. Some of Hondo’s men are already loading their boxes onto the train. Lux is among them, waving from the back as she approaches.

“I liked this plan,” Ahsoka says, leaning in close to Hondo. She stops in front of the train and hands her boxes over to another Weequay, who passes it to another and so on, and turns to Hondo’s ship.

There’s only a few people left in line.

The Inspector nods, and the pirate with the box smiles. Ahsoka frowns as the Force blazes. His knees crack as he picks up the box, and that small amount of jostling is enough for the world to light up orange and a boom to split the sky.

Ahsoka dives to the ground, clutching her montrals, a few milliseconds before it happens. When it does, the ash coats her in a fine layer of white powder and the ringing in her head continues, like an alarm calling her to battle.

She turns herself over and her stomach heaves. The clone troopers in the area stumble, only barely managing to load their blasters and aim.

Though her body is still humming from the blast, Ahsoka tears her lightsabers from her pockets and ignites them a split second before the blaster bolts hit the still-downed Hondo. She deflects another, and when the Force screams a warning she listens, crouching low and parrying. As she moves, her lightsabers score deep grooves in the dirt. Air comes hot and heavy and when she finally begins to move towards the clones—those who survived the blast—her body is too slow.

She grits her teeth. No failure now. Not here.

Ahsoka reaches the first clone and saws off the muzzle of his blaster before she slams into him, her foot crushing his helmet and leaving a bruise on his head. Before his helmet slides off and reveals his face underneath, she’s off to the next clones. Two of them, working in tandem, each dispatched as easily as the last. One knock of their heads together and they go down, blasters falling slow enough from their hands for Ahsoka to cut through them.

The pirates are screaming in both pain and anger, war cries reverberating around the flattened clearing. Ahsoka pause, observing the dying chaos.

Back by the train, Lux scrambles for his blaster as a clone advances on him, blaster pointed at the Senator’s face. Ahsoka moves to help, to protect, when something clutches at her leg and sends her crashing to the ground.

When she turns over, expecting wildlife or a snare, she meets a clone, lying on his back, eyes wide, legs blown clean off.

Vomit rises in her. Even with the goggles she can see the charred mess of his legs, plastoid and flesh melting together. His eyes are wild, and his hand scrambles at her.

Against her better judgement, Ahsoka’s hand finds his. She crawls to him, leaning over him as his life drains out of him and into the Force.

“You’re okay,” she murmurs over the blasterfire. “You did well. You protected them.”

“You did well.”

The clone chokes, on spit or blood she doesn’t know, but Ahsoka nods anyways. “It’ll be over soon.”

His lips open and close, and his eyes tear up as she feels the last of him drift from his body to the Force. When his head lolls back, the blaster fire has died down. Ahsoka watches his peaceful face—so much like Jesse, so much like Rex—and when she’s certain he’s gone, she turns away from him and empties her stomach into the wreckage.

The plastoid armour, the burnt skin, all of it her fault. Dead clones, because of her mission. Her fault.

Once she’s done throwing up Ahsoka clutches at her neck. Her fingers run a trail from the underside of her chin to the dip of her collarbone, dozens of times, until one of the Weequay pirates finds her, drags her towards the bullet train.

Ahsoka stares at the clone until he’s out of sight, with only the whir of the bullet train and the cheers of the pirates to fill her mind.

* * *

At the very least, Sidious is consistent. He invites Anakin to the Mon Calamari Ballet a few hours after Anakin arrives back on Imperial Centre. It’s not the same one they saw during the war, when Sidious first told him about Padmé and the dark side and Grievous. Though, if he’s being honest with himself, Anakin never really learned the difference between them.

He shoves his way past the patrons milling in the halls. The low, ethereal tones of the singers float through the high ceilings. A child, dressed in stiff clothing, follows Anakin with their eyes as he passes.

Vader is a looming figure over the entire Empire. A mysterious enforcer who used a lightsaber and hardly spoke. Anakin smiles under his helmet. There’s a strange melody there, some kind of odd dissonance between Vader as the galaxy knows him and Vader as Anakin knows him. He’s not Vader. He should be content to let the rumours slip over him like water over a duck, but they stick, and while Anakin _knows_ that he’s not Vader, some days he feels like he’s not exactly Anakin either.

Anakin hurries up the velvet-carpeted stairs leading to Sidious’ booth. His master has never been tolerant of his late arrivals, even during the war. He’s already wasted enough time on his own thoughts.

The stairs lead straight into Sidious’ personal booth. Senators and other socialites crowd around the him, whispering to each other under their breaths. Anakin is quiet. He slips through the crowd, and their conversations die down as he passes.

“My master,” Anakin intones, slowing as he reaches Sidious’ side.

“Lord Vader,” Sidious croons, waving off the crowd of sentients surrounding him. “Leave us.”

“Please, sit,” Sidious says. Anakin’s breath hitches. Last time he joined Sidious in the Opera like this, it’d been a series of manipulations Anakin was too oblivious to notice. Of course, most conversations with his master are manipulations, to the point where Anakin would rather lose another arm than have to deal with him.

The other conversations aren’t even really conversations. Just lectures punctuated by bright flashes of Sith lightning.

But it’s not like Anakin has much of a choice. He sits. Sidious is veiled, but the bright lights of the opera highlight the folds of skin on his face. Crevices like mountain valleys ripple across his once-wizened face. He’d been like that when Anakin found him in his office, waiting at his desk.

He’d ran there, praying Master Windu or Master Fisto or someone had already killed the Sith lord but when he arrived the bodies of the Masters littered the floor. The window was shattered, Windu’s lightsaber in Sidious’ hands.

Anakin wanted to run. He wanted to find Obi-Wan or Ahsoka and head for the Outer Rim, or Wild Space, but instead he stayed, letting Sidious weave his spider’s web. And he chose to stay. Padmé was already dead. For that, Anakin would kill Sidious. He’d tried to fight him but the Sith overwhelmed him, and Anakin was tired, ruined, and he couldn’t kill him. With the tip of his lightsaber hovering above Anakin’s heart, Sidious gave him an ultimatum. Join him, or die.

Maybe if he was better, stronger, this all could’ve been avoided.

There’s no use ruminating on the past, he tells himself as he leans into the seat, trying to adjust to the plush seating. Sidious smiles, humming to himself as the Mon Calamari dancers move through the air, singing in throaty voices.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sidious glances at him. Anakin blinks, still shuffling in his seat.

“Yes, master.”

“Everything moving in perfect harmony, exactly the way it was meant to.” Sidious taps on the armrest with gnarled fingers, following the rhythm of the ballet exactly. “I must admit, when I was your age, I wasn’t particularly partial to displays like these. My own master dragged me along to countless different operas, waiting for me to see the value in them, but it took me years to understand the nuance of these performances. I do hope you don’t make my mistakes.”

“Of course not, master,” Anakin nods.

“Good,” Sidious sits up in his seat, raising a hand to his chin. “You were the best of the Jedi, Lord Vader, but you have a ways to go before you are a true Sith.”

He lingers on his last sentence, and cold fingers wrap themselves around Anakin’s heart. Sidious errs dangerously close to the truth, and Anakin knows if he’s discovered, Sidious won’t hesitate to kill him. He didn’t hesitate with Dooku.

“But that’s besides the point,” Sidious smiles, his damned grandfatherly smile, and Anakin’s instinctual response is to soften, to open up and tell Sidious whatever he wants to hear. The years spent confiding in him, treating him like a father, and the entire time Sidious just wanted him as an apprentice. Still, months of hatred can’t override his instinctual response.

“There are reports of Ahsoka Tano on Kashyyyk,” Sidious says. He’s so casual that Anakin’s mind skips over his words at first, until they settle in and his head snaps to look at Sidious closer. His master’s face is neutral, staring ahead at the ballet and not at Vader.

“What?”

“Apparently, Anakin Skywalker’s apprentice lives,” Sidious shrugs.

Anakin clutches the armrest tightly. Sidious wasn’t supposed to know, and Rex was supposed to tell Anakin.

He’d pulled some strings and stationed Rex within the Inquisition’s headquarters, monitoring galactic communications for Jedi sightings. Most importantly, he was supposed to bury any sightings of Ahsoka, hide her from inquisitors, but he was also supposed to contact Anakin if she was spotted. And he hadn’t.

Anakin clutches the armrest hard enough to crack. He couldn’t afford to have Rex failing like this, especially not now, when the slightest mistake was enough to get him killed.

“Are you sure?”

Sidious raises an eyebrow—at least, Anakin thinks it’s an eyebrow, considering Sidious no longer has any hair—and smiles. “My boy, of course I’m sure.”

“Of course, Master.”

Sidious sits back in his seat, and, as if he were discussing the weather, said, “She’ll have to be disposed of, of course.”

“What?”

Sidious’ sickly yellow eyes shift to him. “A Jedi, running amok, smuggling weapons and killing clone troopers? My boy, surely you understand why we can’t have that.”

Anakin bites his lip. While he has complete control over the Inquisitorius, Sidious has complete control over him. Whatever Anakin controls Sidious controls, and he could send Inquisitors after Ahsoka and Anakin would be powerless.

Ahsoka defeated two Inquisitors before, but they’re getting better. Steeping themselves in the dark side.

“Of course.”

“I’m leaving it to you, but her death should be your main priority. I don’t want you going out there quite yet. Your Inquisitors should be able to deal with this,” Sidious says. “Do something fun with it. Make it a competition for them. Whoever kills her gets their personal Star Destroyer. Something like that.”

“Master, if I may. . .”

Sidious’ snake-like gaze slides over to him, and Anakin shrinks. “Yes, Lord Vader.”

“Ahsoka Tano was trained by Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi. She is the best of her generation. She would be a powerful asset to the Empire.”

Sidious considers, before he shakes his head. “She is too dangerous. She may not call herself a Jedi, but she acts like one. And her willpower is stronger than most. Breaking her would be unsuccessful.”

Anakin almost protests, before Sidious’ brow furrows. “Though, she is skilled. You said she killed an Inquisitor, yes?”

“Yes, Master?”

Sidious tilts his head, the movements of the opera reflected in his eyes. “She would be your responsibility. Breaking her would be entirely your assignment, and anything she does would be your responsibility. Any revolt.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Have your Inquisitor, Vader.” Sidious waves his hand lazily. “But any mistake of hers is a mistake of yours.”

Anakin nods. “Of course, Master. I’ll send the order for her capture.”

This is good, better than he expected. Ahsoka will not go easily, and he expects he’ll have to find her himself. But with special clearance from Sidious to find her, he won’t have to worry about his other assignments.

Of course, Sidious will still want him to finish everything on his schedule right now, and he’s sure his master will put him to use before he unleashes him on Ahsoka. Still, this is good. It means he’s one step closer to finding someone he knows.

Not that Rex helped. Anakin burns red hot at that. If Anakin hadn’t showed up when he had, Ahsoka would’ve been killed. Anakin would have one less chance at finding her. Rex is Anakin’s friend, but right now he needs more than that. He needs an ally, someone he can trust to do the right thing and do it perfectly.

“I already did, Lord Vader,” Sidious says. “Though, I suppose it has to be changed from a kill order to a capture order.”

His master’s face turns to him, sliding unnaturally to face Anakin. “But you can take care of that, Lord Vader.”

Anakin pushes himself out of his seat and bows to his master. “Of course, Lord Sidious.”

“Do not fail me, Lord Vader.”

* * *

For the most part, those at the Inquisitorius don’t bother him as he heads through the halls. They gravitate around him, workers and Inquisitors alike, but he ignores them. That seems to push them away.

He’s not sure where Rex’s station is, but it has to be around here somewhere. Anakin searches for Rex’s silvery blue presence, parsing through the violent, blood-soaked presences of the Inquisitors and the bright minds of the other clones. He lets his feet carry him towards Rex, only half-paying attention to where he’s going.

He doesn’t know how Rex could’ve missed it. Ahsoka, attacking in such broad daylight like that, would’ve set off enough alarms in the Inquisitorius that even the janitors would know about her. Rex isn’t stupid, which means he was just careless.

Normally, Anakin would be forgiving. People fuck up—Force knows he’s made more than a few mistakes in his lifetime—but this isn’t the time for screw ups. If he hadn’t been there, if Sidious hadn’t called him in, Ahsoka could be dead.

If that happened, Anakin doesn’t know how far he’d go. One of a few things he has left, and he came so close to losing her. Again. He spent the latter half of the war without Ahsoka; he doesn’t want to imagine a life without her.

Not when he’s lost Obi-Wan. Not when he’s lost Padmé.

Anakin pushes open the door as calmly as he can. The air cracks around him, sulfur before a storm, and his eyes skip over the clones before his gaze lands on Rex.

“Leave us,” he murmurs. The technicians, their fingers still hovering over control boards and security cameras, stare. Anakin narrows his eyes and drops his shields a bit further. The air smells like lightning before a storm, feels like the moment before a blaster bolt hits, and apparently it’s enough for them, and they file out past him.

Anakin steps forwards. Rex leans back in his chair. The technician’s uniform, which looks a lot like that of a naval officer’s, gives Anakin a full view of Rex’s confused and slightly scared expression.

“Ahsoka was on Kashyyyk,” Anakin tilts his head. He watches with faint amusement as Rex’s eyes widen and he scrambles back to the control board, fingers flipping red switches and pressing round buttons with the precision of a concert valachord player.

“I-I didn’t know it was Ahsoka—” Rex stammers, flipping through weeks of footage in a few seconds. Anakin steps closer. His footsteps echo in the small room. Some part of him tries to pry back the cold fingers wrapped around his heart. Anakin shoves down that part of him. He can’t excuse failure like this, not of this caliber.

“But you knew about it?” Anakin says. His voice swoops down as he speaks. It’s not a question, though it sounds like one. Anakin knows Rex was too careless, too meandering to check, even though that’s why Anakin moved him to this station in the first place.

Rex’s brown eyes dart from the screens to Anakin’s looming figure. They’re wide and unblinking, and Anakin almost, _almost_ smiles. Good. He should be scared. He almost killed Ahsoka, it’s his fault, he _deserves_ to be punished.

The grip on his heart tightens as Rex’s breathing grows shallow and panicked. “I didn’t see the transmissions, sir, I didn’t know.”

Anakin turns over Rex’s words, picking over every intonation and word like a vulture picking over a carcass. Something pushes at the edge of his consciousness, something dark and oily and powerful, and Anakin leans into it. It guides him down, deeper into the dark void growing inside of him. The cold grip on his chest grows tighter.

“You’re supposed to know,” Anakin says. His words sound perfectly calm. Too calm.

“I’m sorry, General, it won’t happen again. It was a mistake, I swear.”

“You’re lucky she’s not dead,” Anakin spits. His words are distorted. This time, it’s not just by the vocoder. “Sidious wanted to kill her, and I had to fix your fucking mistake.”

What if Ahsoka had been killed? What would happen if Anakin came here to tell Rex she was dead because of Rex’s own negligence? He wouldn’t say it was a mistake then.

If Ahsoka had died, Rex would die with her.

“What?”

“You’re lucky I was there,” Anakin snarls. He curls his fingers into fists. He teeters over the edge of something—something powerful and all-encompassing and terrible. Anakin feels like he’s held over the edge by an invisible string—though he doesn’t know to what—but he could cut it with a single thought.

“Anakin, I didn’t know.”

He laughs. It’s low and dark and comes from deep inside of him. Rex’s presence curdles with fear. Good. If he’s scared, he’ll remember this, and he won’t make this mistake again.

Rex’s cap shields his eyes from Anakin’s searching gaze. Even without seeing them, Anakin knows what he would see in them.

Anakin stares down over the edge, and cuts that invisible string, leaving himself to fall headlong ever downwards.

The switchboard cracks under Rex’s fingers, sparking and hissing where the seams split. Anakin raises his chin. “I won’t tolerate something like this again. I hope you know that.”

Rex’s mouth gapes. He shrinks back from the board, fingers trembling. He’s seen so much in the war, bleeding children and dead mothers, but something about this, about Anakin, seems to unnerve him to the point of terror.

Anakin stares, glad for his fear, and then something sprouts.

He’d have to pull a few strings for it to work, but if it worked, Ahsoka would be protected by someone much more capable than Rex—she’d be under the protection of the Empire—and Rex would be off of Imperial Centre, where he could get a ship and escape to the rebellion if he so wished. Anakin smiles, though it’s more of a baring of teeth.

“I’ll get a transfer. You’ll be moved to the Outer Rim on a project.”

Rex freezes. “What kind of project?”

Anakin glances up at the security cameras in the room and breaks them with a single curl of his fingers. Rex flinches ever so slightly as he does.

“Sidious is developing a weapon,” he says, “The personnel working on it are some of the most important people in the Empire. You’ll be protecting them. You can take Cody along.”

He can get rid of Obi-Wan’s murderer while he's dealing with Rex.

(He knows Cody didn’t mean it. He knows he loved Obi-Wan, in his own way, that Cody would never willingly harm him, no more than Anakin would, but right now he doesn’t care. Cody pulled the trigger. He gave the order, and now, all Anakin had left of his master was a broken bond).

Rex’s throat bobs and he pushes himself out of his seat. While he still doesn’t look at Anakin, he manages to keep his voice someone level. Anakin admires that.

“Sir, I don’t know if that’s the best idea right now.”

“You’ll be in the Outer Rim. You’l have a whole hangar of ships to pick from when you make your wonderful escape,” Anakin cocks his head in mock curiosity, “Or is that not good enough for you?”

“It’s fine, sir. I was just thinking—”

“Then I don’t see an issue, Rex,” Anakin says. His power rocks around the room, crawling up the walls and over Rex’s skin. Anakin lets it wash him clean. He stretches out in the Force, reading minds and presences like a child with a new toy. He stops on Rex's mind, and the images of a strange planet with fluorescent plants and a tall Jedi, wielding two saberstaffs, and the feeling of so many dead clones weighing on his shoulders is startling enough to knock Anakin out of his trip, shoving him back into his own body.

Anakin curls his fingers, glancing around at the crushed room, before he turns to Rex. “You’ll ship out as soon as possible. Don’t fail me, Rex.”

He turns out of the room, and he moves through the sea of workers like a lightsaber through flesh.

* * *

He can’t even sleep well anymore.

Anakin runs a hand over his face, feeling his cold skin beneath calloused fingers, and sighs. His muscles ache and there’s a strange, pulsing pain down his right calf. Anakin turns over in bed and wraps the soft sheets around him. There’s blissful quiet. No troopers, no worries, no Inquisitors, no civilians, nothing. Just quiet.

He shoves his face deeper into the pillow. He spent the entire day cooped up in a cockpit or running after Sidious’ targets—a bounty hunter, if he remembered right—and for the past three hours he’s wanted nothing more than to get to his quarters and sleep. Especially when he gets an actual bed and not a cot on the _Devastator_.

He turns over again and splays out, letting his limbs hang over the side of the bed. Cold air wafts over him, and he stiffens. Imperial Centre is already so damn cold. Even under the blankets.

Anakin pulls the blanket back over himself and sits up, rubbing his face as if that’ll push away the sleep. He’d never slept well. Of course he wouldn’t start now.

At least it’s quiet. The never-ending chatter of the war and the Force during the Republic had been bearable. Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, and Padmé drowned out the noise for him, but with their absence comes a stream of white noise.

But Ahsoka is still out there.

He doesn’t know where, doesn’t even have a clue without Rex, but he holds on to that. Padmé is dead, along with any hope of a family they had. Obi-Wan fell with the rest of the Jedi.

Some days it almost feels manageable. If he can just get to Sidious, just kill him, then he can finally rest. Even now, months after Order 66, Anakin doesn’t know what’ll come after that, but Ahsoka will be there, and for him, that’s enough.

If he can find her, that is. She’s more evasive than he gave her credit for. Anakin assumed Rex would be able to find her, especially when his sole job was finding her, but he’d failed in that aspect. And Anakin can’t lose her. Not when he’s lost so much.

He leans back into his bed, yawning when he pulls the covers over himself. Anakin turns, closes his eyes, and sinks into the Force. It’s a form of meditation Obi-Wan taught him, the only one Anakin actually likes. It’s particularly useful for escape.

Escape from Sidious, from the cold of his room, from the wails coming from somewhere outside of his room.

Which Anakin doesn’t care about, because he’s about to sleep.

Imperial Centre is quiet tonight. It’s been a hotspot of activity all day, so he relishes the moments of silence. The Jedi said the Force was freedom, that entering it is like a bliss you can’t find anywhere else, but for Anakin it feels more like shackles. There’s nothing tethering him down anymore yet he can’t seem to reach the height of his power, find out what he can really do.

Of course, he won’t be able to do that if those fucking wails don’t stop.

Anakin opens his eyes and pulls the covers off of himself, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. While he has his suspicions, he doesn’t know where they’re coming from. Could be another one of Sidious’ prisoners, a drunk clone, or an attack.

Part of him hopes for the latter. As he calls his lightsaber to his hand, and starts off down the hall and to the cries, leaving his helmet in his quarters, he can’t help but itch for a fight. So much of his work now consists of assassinations, like Senator Taa, or dancing around dignitaries like a glorified Senator. There are little flicks of battle, but those are small, fading like embers within seconds.

He thought Sidious would be making more use of him. Instead, his master seems content to keep him grounded, on Imperial Centre. Is this his punishment for the mess with Taa? Sidious hasn’t mentioned it, and Anakin didn’t want to bring it up. It could be a test of loyalty, seeing if Anakin will bring it up himself. But if it isn’t, and he mentions it, he just risks getting himself killed.

Not that anyone is still around to care. For all he knows, Ahsoka still thinks he’s dead.

Anakin twists his lightsaber hilt in his hand. The hallway stretches out before him, long shafts of moonlight highlighting his path forward.

The wails continue, and something within him turns over in anticipation. When the wails grow louder, and Anakin realizes that it’s not a battle, he clamps down on that feeling.

The two children Third Sister brought him—Luke and Leia—have been staying here, in his wing of the palace, despite Anakin’s better judgement. He’s sure he can arrange for their parents to be found, or for them to be taken off-planet, where neither Sidious or the Inquisitors can see them, but he doesn’t want to. Some small, selfish part of him just wants them to stay here, and he can’t even explain why. He’s said he’s going to raise them and train them in the dark side of the Force. Maybe he’ll train them eventually, but for now they’re just bodies taking up space in his home. It would be easier to foist their upbringing onto someone else.

That’d probably be better than having them raised by a nanny droid, which is what he’s been doing so far. That’s probably why they’re crying. Anakin would too, if he was raised by a droid. He’s made a point to visit them at least five times a day—something about human contact being good for development, according to a holobook he read once—but most of the time he’s tired and irritable and doesn’t really know what to do with them.

He stops in the doorway of their room. Might as well make sure they’re not dead. Their cribs are large, cushioned, with everything a child needs. The room is spacious. Nothing appears to be wrong, except for the child standing upright in their crib, wailing loudly as they shake the railing.

Anakin swears under his breath and glances around. There’s no one in the hallways, and the child seems distressed. . .

He steps into the room and hurries over to the youngling. He still doesn’t have his helmet, meaning he’s utterly screwed if a clone comes by, but he thinks having the helmet on would just scare the child more.

Anakin stops in front of the crib. The baby, swaying on their feet, stares back with wide blue eyes.

“Hey, bud,” Anakin murmurs, voice heady with sleep and annoyance. The youngling—Luke—babbles at him, his little fists clutching the railing. His legs, thick with baby fat, shake. The nanny droid put the twins’ age at about eight months, and while Anakin isn’t an expert on child development, he doesn’t think children are supposed to be standing for that long when they’re this young. The few holobooks he read about child development have been pushed out of his memory.

Luke stares open mouthed at him and lets go of the railing, stumbling back onto his mattress. He lands off balance. His large head, covered in wispy blonde hair, smacks into the other side of the crib. Luke blinks before his face squishes, turns red, and he starts crying even louder than before.

“Oh, fu. . .” Anakin starts, glancing around the room for the nanny droid. It’ll know how to deal with this, right?

Luke’s most gapes open. His cries stop as he takes a deep breath, and then start up all over again.

“No, no, please don’t cry, please,” Anakin says. Luke sits in his crib, hands grabbing at the railings. Anakin swears under his breath, cringing when he remembers there’s children in the room, and, in a moment where all his logic leaves him, picks up Luke.

Luke’s fists latch onto Anakin’s hair, and he winces. The baby’s tiny jumper is soft again his hands. Anakin slowly manipulates Luke into a more comfortable position, both for him and for the youngling, and sighs. Luke’s cries slow, and Anakin heaves a sigh.

“There you go,” he mutters. He doubts he’ll be going to sleep anytime soon. Glancing around the room, Anakin searches for some kind of chair or somewhere he can sit. Luke babblesinto his shoulder. Anakin has one hand over Luke’s back, his mechanical forearm supporting him from the bottom. Luke nestles his head between Anakin’s shoulder and neck. His hands rest around his neck.

He breathes deeply, his chest falling up and down as he does, and Anakin closes his eyes. Despite himself, he finds himself leaning into the embrace. It’s been so long since anyone other than Sidious has touched him in any way other than pain, and this kind of pure affection is something he hasn’t known since the end of the war. The only person he’s even touched has been Rex, and that was through his armour. With only his thin shirt and baggy pants on, he can feel the steady thump of Luke’s heartbeat against his own.

Anakin rocks back and forth, trying to soothe him to sleep. He had done some preparation when he found out Padmé was pregnant, though that had been overshadowed by the war and his assignment to the council, and when she died he had destroyed the holobooks entirely.

Luke yawns and Anakin smiles at his scrunched face. For a few precious seconds, he feels content. He forgets about Ahsoka, and Rex, and Sidious.

Anakin sighs and bends back down, setting Luke in his crib. He pushes the hair away from the child’s face, smiling softly down at him. The high window of the twins’ room makes Luke’s hair look like spun moonlight, frosted with silver and gold. Anakin glances backwards, towards the door, and back at Luke. He has a day full of meetings and a training session with Sidious, none of which he’s looking forward. He needs sleep.

But when he turns, and his gazes meets two little eyes staring at him in the darkness, he decides sleep can wait.

Leia blinks sleepily. Anakin smiles at her. Leia’s brow flickers, and her lips twitch downwards into a frown. Slowly, as not to disturb her, Anakin walks up to her crib.

“Hey, princess.”

He doesn’t know where the pet name comes from. Leia sticks out one of her arms and reaches through the crib’s railing to grab at something on the floor. Anakin glances down, stepping backwards. A small, plush tooka lays on the ground a few inches from the crib. Anakin bends down. He picks it up and holds it near his face. Leia babbles, grasping for the stuffed animal with a small hand.

Anakin sets it next to her. Leia’s fingers, clumsy and untrained, latch onto one of the tooka’s ears. Anakin smiles down at her.

When she yawns and turns herself over, Anakin draws a blanket over her back. He glances back to the open door. He needs sleep. But, as his gaze skips over Luke and Leia, he decides he can find sleep here.

There’s a chair in the corner, where he can watch the children in case they wake up again. He raises a hand and one of the many folded blankets in the room come flying into his hand. Anakin unfolds it just as he reaches the chair. It’s not the most comfortable, but it’ll do. He settles into the chair and lays the blanket over himself, blinking sleepily.

Anakin knows attachment to these children will only end badly. Sidious will have a new weapon, Anakin a new weakness. Luke and Leia will become weapons in Anakin’s private war. Anakin wouldn’t put it past Sidious to kidnap or harm children, no matter how young. Maybe even kill them. There’s no limit his master won’t go.

But, as Anakin dozes off in the chair, he promises himself he won’t let that happen.

* * *

He blurs out Kashyyyk in the Force, choosing instead to bend down, let his fingers drift over the scored lightsaber marks on the ground, and breathe. The Force spreads around him, dark and twisting and wonderful. He can feel the padawan’s lingering presence through it. Sharp with terror and worry and fear and something—something more, something deeper. Grief’s bitter tang. He recognizes it as easily as he breathes.

The Togruta is crafty. She’d be there, on Stygeon Prime, with Kenobi and Unduli.

She’s gained a new set of lightsabers since then, along with a dangerous amount of confidence.

He stands, rolling his shoulders back ad letting his old bones crack. It’s been a while since he had a good hunt. Ahsoka Tano had killed First Sister, killed Sixth Brother, bested Third Sister, all by blundering into them.

The Grand Inquisitor smiles. Surely, Vader will be pleased with this prey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOO LUX BONTERI 🍅 🍅 🍅 WHO INVITED THIS GUY 🍅 🍅 🍅 🍅 🍅 🍅 🍅 🍅
> 
> i have my issues with this chapter but this is the best i could do
> 
> hoping to update every monday at 8:00MDT starting on the fourteenth (key word hoping)
> 
> up next: A birthday comes up. Obi-Wan lands on Mustafar in pursuit of the twins. Rex, Cody, and Bly adjust to the Death Star.
> 
> POSTED 04/09/2020


	17. The Places You Left Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Obi-Wan searches Mustafar, Anakin deals with a birthday. Rex, Cody, and Bly work on the Death Star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> potential trigger / content warning for blood during rex and cody's second scene ! 
> 
> also this is really short im so sorry
> 
> ALSOOO thank you to [lou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curseofmen) for reading over obi-wan's section! go read her fics she has a new very soft anakin fic and i rate it a solid 10/10.

Rex runs his hands over his blasters. To all the passing clones, he must look like another shiny. His head is shaved bald— dying it constantly became too arduous after a few weeks— and he was lucky enough to avoid gaining any identifying scars during the war. Cody’s curved scar has gained a reputation of its own amongst shinies. The clones have a legend of their own. On Kamino, ARC trainers always bring stories of the most valiant clones, both dead and alive, and the cadets make it a religion. The best commanders have their own fans.

Though fans isn’t the proper word. The cadets always aspire to be like someone, whether it’s a famed military commander of the past, or a brother. Cody’s scar became part of his own religion. During Rex’s time on Kamino, he’d heard more than his fair share of stories. Cody got his scar saving the Chancellor. Cody got his scar after fighting off a rabid Lothwolf with his bare hands. Cody got his scar from Dooku himself.

Rex asked Cody where he got it once, and Cody only smiled and asked Rex where he thought the commander got it. Rex didn’t have any guesses. 

He’s learned that scars don’t have big stories like that behind them. Some of them do, like the scar on his arm from Saleucami, but the rest of them don’t. They’re little more than bundles of white tissues, bumpy to the touch, a roadmap of everything he’d done during the war.

But those scars are all hidden beneath his armour where none of the passing clones can see them. It lends some anonymity to him. He looks like any other clone in the mess. 

Cody sets his tray down in front of Rex, who merely glances at him,“Commander.”

“Trooper.”

Rex fiddles with his blasters, taking them apart with practiced motions. “Any news?”

“Yeah. It can wait,” Cody leans forward. Since his transfer out of the 501st and to one of many Star Destroyers orbiting the Death Star, he’s abandoned his newer, blue-striped armour in favour of his older set. He’s managed not to be reprimanded for the 212th markings but Rex doubts that’ll last long. 

Cody digs his spoon into the processed slop they’re serving, and glances around the mess. Considering the time, it’s remarkably quiet. Few clones frequent the hall. Those who do are tired or drunk. Rex doubts they’re paying any attention to the two troopers speaking in hushed tones tables away. 

Well, three troopers. Bly still needs to get here.

“Bly’s stationed on board the Death Star,” Cody says simply, voice all too calm for that statement. Rex’s hands stop mid-assembly. 

Neither of them speak. Cody lets Rex absorb that, lets it sit. They’ve both been assigned to Moff Tarkin’s personal guard, and they spend all their time above the Death Star, following Tarkin, making sure he doesn’t get hurt, but they’ve never been in the weapon itself. 

Bly is.

“Personal guard of a scientist,” Cody adds, and Rex groans. It’s not exactly reassuring. All they know about the Death Star is that it’s a weapon. Being inside of the weapon meant Bly has more knowledge than some of the officers on board the _Immortal,_ Tarkin's Star Destroyer.

And it meant that the Empire would dispose of him at the slightest sign of treason. 

Even the General didn’t explain the Death Star to him. Anakin has clearance for the highest levels of the Empire, second only to the Emperor, so Rex reasons he has to know what the Death Star is and why it’s there. But he hadn’t spoken to Rex since he assigned him here.

Maybe that’s for the best. 

Rex sets down his blasters and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Have you talked to him?”

“Briefly,” Cody says nonchalantly, taking a bite of artificial nerf steak. Rex doesn’t miss the way his brother’s eyes scan the room, like a net casting for fish, before he speaks again, “They’ll detect the comlink I gave him if he uses it too often.” 

“Fuck,” Rex mutters. He tucks his blasters into their holsters— a motion made awkward by his seated position— and leans forwards. Brothers swarm around the room, laughing loudly and without shame. None of them have tiny scars on the side of their heads. All of them still have their chips.

Rex swallows. Cody follows his eyes and, seemingly, his line of thought. “We’ll have to deal with that later.”

“With the—”

“Yes. With that,” Cody widens his eyes just as he cuts off Rex. 

Rex swears under his breath, “Sorry. Slipped my mind.”

There isn’t much point in a secret Rebellion if it isn’t secret. 

If there even still is a Rebellion. He’s spent more months with Anakin than he has with the Rebellion. With Anakin the way he is now, Rex wouldn’t be surprised if he got back to Dantooine and found only ashes. 

He picks at his fingernails. Cody’s stare hovers over him like a thick fog, but Rex’s mind continues. 

Anakin is different, that much isn’t worth trying to deny. Rex doesn’t want to push the boundaries. It’s not worth pissing off the General just to see how much he’s changed. Based on what happened to Cody, Rex can wager a guess. Anakin was already at the absolute extreme of Jedi morality. He’s stepped over that line, though Rex isn’t sure how long ago he did. Perhaps the General he knew was a fake, a facade meant to convince everyone of his morality. Rex frowns. 

“What is it?” Cody says. 

Rex smiles half-heartedly, “Nothing.”

Cody can tell it’s a lie. Rex knows him well enough to read him, and to know that Cody won’t press it. There’s an unspoken agreement between the two brothers. They won’t press each other, but they’ll try to be honest. Cody knows him better than most. In turn, Rex knows him. 

It’s that agreement that stops Rex from pushing Cody too hard about Obi-Wan. He understands the kind of pain that comes from the chip being removed. He doesn’t understand Cody’s guilt, nor his grief, but he can support him. Right now, that’s all they need.

“So what next?” Rex asks. Cody raises an eyebrow. 

Rex raises his voice to be heard over the din of the refectory, “What next?”

Cody stands up suddenly, hands clasping his now empty tray. Before Rex can get off of his seat Cody is weaving through troopers— though it’s more like them moving around him— with ease. Rex tucks his helmet under his arm, the same way Cody is, and follows the commander.

Rex jogs a bit to catch up with him. Cody drops off his empty tray and nods at the droid serving their meals. He ignores the glances from other clones. 

They leave the refectory, Rex trailing after Cody like a lost hound, waiting for him to speak first. There’s so much they have to talk about, none of it pleasant. This isn’t exactly the easiest situation. But Rex signed up for this. He could’ve fucked off to the Outer Rim and left the Rebellion to rot, but he didn’t. He stayed. Out of hope for the clones and the Republic, he stayed. 

Cody leads him through a maze of hallways, and when they stop in a turbolift, he finally speaks. “We have to get off of here.”

Rex wants to be sarcastic, but all he does is nod. Cody glances around. The whir of the turbolift as it takes them down, into the belly of the star destroyer, drowns out Rex’s heavy breathing. There’s a vice around his heart, a deep-seated fear of. . . something. He can’t pinpoint it, but he can feel its effects like a poison. 

What happens if he fails? What happens if they do all this, and Cody or Bly dies? What if they’ve already failed? For all he knows, the Rebellion could already be dead. Ashes on a smoking planet. Ahsoka, Bail, Wolffe, all gone.

“Rex?” Cody nudges him when the turbolift door opens. “Are you okay?”

Rex searches the ground. What if everything he’s done is for nothing? What if Ahsoka is dead, and it’s his fault?

“Rex,” Cody sets a hand on Rex’s shoulder. The captain jumps, the sudden weight on his shoulder alarming. His brother turns Rex to face him, and stares. “What’s wrong?”

Rex wants to put on a plastic smile, but instead he just blows a long breath out through his nose. Everything is wrong. In the war, he risked his life everyday, but he had Ahsoka. He had Cody and Anakin, and it was normal. He had his brothers, and now, the only one who’s stayed is Cody. Everything is wrong. 

But how is he supposed to tell him that?

“We can talk later,” Rex says, shrugging off Cody’s hand and walking out of the turbolift. They’re in the belly of the Star Destroyer, where pipes run like veins through the machine. Steam escapes from vents in high-pitched squeals, enough to deafen anyone who gets too close.

“What’s going on?” Rex glances at Cody, who ducks under pipes and heads down the hall easily. Even though Cody’s back is to him, his helmet is still tucked under his arm, and Rex sees the deep inhale his brother takes. He always breathes like that before delivering news, like a missing platoon or a dead trooper. 

“Spit it out, Cody,” Rex says. 

“Patience, _vod_ ,” Cody says. His voice is tinged with tired amusement, and Rex almost wants to sock him. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

Cody rounds a corner and stops in front of a large, open space. Pipes cross the ceiling, and vents line the walls, but that’s not what catches Rex’s attention. There’s a large, octagonal platform in the middle of the room. It’s painted faded red with bright but messy white lines. Ropes line the sides, with eight posts on each point of the octagon.

“Cody,” Rex turns to his brother, “Why is there a bloody boxing ring in the Star Destroyer?”

With a slightly self-satisfied smile, Cody replies, “We need some way to blow off steam.”

He raises an eyebrow. This isn’t the time for fucking around. They’re supposed to be focusing on getting Bly and getting off of here. There were fights during the war, rings like this to spar and provide entertainment for the rest of the boys. The Jedi turned a blind eye to it but the Empire won’t tolerate it.

“I thought we were looking for Bly,” Rex hisses. Cody’s smug smile grows larger. 

“We are,” he says patiently, “Every fortnight, there’s a shuttle that goes from the Death Star to here so Tarkin can speak with the scientists. They bring their guard with them.”

Oh. 

“So we talk to Bly then,” he mutters. “Great. When’s the next fortnight?”

Cody smirks. “Three days from now.”

* * *

There’s a certain peace that comes with Mustafar. It’s almost like that of the Jedi Temple. But where the Temple was bright and purifying, Mustafar is dead. Still, it offers Obi-Wan some sense of reprieve from months of chatter and stress, though he knows his work here will be no less taxing. Still, the quiet is new. As he passes by rivers of lava, the planet is silent. As he opens the door to a strange silver compound, the Force is silent. Without its constant hum to distract him, Obi-Wan can think.

Force knows he needs that. 

His life in the past three years has been nothing but a fevered rush of pain and loss and fear. Even when the war was going well, he had been worried about Anakin’s death, of Ahsoka’s death, of losing everything the Jedi had worked so hard for, and that worry ate at him like a moth eating at clothing. Meditation had done little to soothe him. 

So now he finds himself on a planet built out of nightmares, searching for some sort of clue to the twins’ whereabouts. 

Obi-Wan forces his tired legs up the final set of stairs and stops in front of the final door. From what he’s gathered, this was a Separatist compound. Judging by its security and tech, it was for the Separatist elites. The Neimodians, the Techno Union, the Republic’s greatest enemies. 

Luckily for him, they’re not here now. Every other day there are rumours of Separatists gathering their forces in the reaches of Wild Space, but he doesn’t pay them any credence. Sidious has proven time and time again that the Separatists were simply a means for an end. While the Separatists would likely only be a minor nuisance to him, the chances of Sidious leaving a loose end like that are infinitesimal. 

Obi-Wan doesn’t know what he’ll find when he opens the door. He hopes for some kind of hint on where Sidious is housing the twins, but even that’s a long shot. But it’s all he has. 

Ahsoka pointed him here. She cited a mission to Mustafar where she and Anakin found kidnapped younglings. Obi-Wan, while not being there, remembers the mission well enough. Cad Bane had stolen a Holocron from the Jedi Temple (which he and Anakin tried to prevent) and used it to retrieve a list of all known Force-Sensitive younglings and give it to Sidious. They’d tried to prevent the kidnappings. They’d failed.

But the Jedi tracked Sidious to Mustafar, where they found his compound and the children, alive. If he hid them here, maybe he hid Luke and Leia here. The alternative— though more relevant— is objectively worse. Sidious might’ve taken them to Imperial Centre, where they’ll most likely be under heavy guard. 

Obi-Wan shakes his head as if to force his thoughts out, and unclips his lightsaber from his belt. With steady fingers he presses through the door, carving a perfect circle in the platinum. 

While the metal is still molten, dripping orange and red, he steps through, careful to stop his robes from brushing against the melting edges.

His foot lands with a dull crunch, and Obi-Wan freezes. Without looking he moves his foot onto solid ground and then glances down to meet the dead eyes of a Neimodian general.

His grey-green flesh is rotted pink, cauterized flesh stretching across his neck and stomach. Careful strikes, clean and precise, like the strokes of a Jedi. Careful to avoid the still steaming door, Obi-Wan bends down and inspects the Neimodian. The room is heavy with the smell of decay. Years of war numb Obi-Wan’s senses and he blocks out the rot like a loathsome pest. 

Still, even years of war didn’t prepare him for this. As he stands the other bodies come into sight, scattered across the room and smashed into walls like playthings. Lightsaber marks cut through control panels and holotables. It’s a senseless murder. There is no logic, no pattern. There didn’t need to be. These are Neimodian bankers, not trained soldiers. They could not have fought back if they tried.

He had never been partial to them. But this seems like too much. The silver room is stained with yellow Neimodian blood. Outside of reinforced windows lays Mustafar, lava reaching into the air. The air in here is thicker than it was outside.

Obi-Wan covers his mouth. 

The twins cannot be here. He does not feel them, cannot find them, and if they were here, he would feel them like sun on a winter’s day. Bright and scalding and luminescent, too much to miss, unless. . .

Unless they were dead.

His bond with Anakin lays severed. His bonds with the twins lay dormant. If they’re not here, then they’re on Imperial Centre, and going there will be a death sentence for him. 

But he doesn’t know that. Obi-Wan steps over the Neimodian and swerves around others, his boots stepping in blood much more often than he’d like. He moves to the only undestroyed console, tucked in the back of the room. Next to it is a door leading into a meeting room with a long table filling it. Obi-Wan can smell the death coming from that room.

He taps on the console. The Aurebesh is simple, and after a few seconds, he’s found his way to the only available security recording. 

It’s taken from an awkward angle. High up, with a small door in the very back of the recording. Obi-Wan glances at it in real-time. It’s the only door that’s opened, and he frowns before returning to the footage. He can’t explain it, but there’s something tugging at his stomach. Not from the stench of rotting bodies, but rather a very sour feeling. There’s nothing good about to come.

Obi-Wan presses play.

Neimodians cluster around tables and consoles warbling to themselves, and a flurry of mouse droids come out of the door. The Neimodians turn just as a tall, dark-cloaked figure steps through the door. The vantage point and the quality of the footage make it difficult to make out the details, but Obi-Wan’s heart sinks.

Those are Jedi robes.

“Welcome, Lord Vader. We’ve been expecting you,” the chief Neimodian steps forward, and Vader raises a hand— a _human_ hand — and every door except for the one he came through shuts. 

Vader raises a hand and the footage stops there. Obi-Wan steps backwards.

Of the Jedi he knew, very few fit that profile, and all of them are dead. There are only so many human males in the Order, even fewer that would fit Vader’s profile.

And Obi-Wan can’t help but focus on one. One potential candidate that sets off every alarm bell, checks every box, but one Obi-Wan knows— knew— too well, knows wouldn’t turn.

Obi-Wan shuts down the console and straightens out.

Vader’s identity is irrelevant. He’s a Sith, a capable one at that, and no amount of familiarity will stop Obi-Wan from doing what he has to. If he finds Vader, that is. For now, the plan is to ignore the Sith Lord entirely. 

All he needs to do is find the twins. Obi-Wan prays the Empire doesn’t know the truth of their parentage, because the second they do, the twins will rise from Inquisitor trainees to Sith apprentices. Anakin was stronger than any Jedi before him, and the twins have inherited that power. Or at least, that potential. Midichlorians alone did not mean power, rather provided a foundation. There are limits on every Jedi, and their midichlorians determined them.

Anakin didn’t have limits.

Obi-Wan sighs, and glances around the room. It’s a Separatist compound, not one of Sidious’ personal compounds, but there’s still a chance he kept something here. Obi-Wan flicks over the sparking consoles and flashing lights, searching for some kind of notice, some kind of log. Sidious must have come here at least once. They already knew he met with Separatists often, though always over hologram. And holograms always leave traces no matter how hard one tries to scrub them away.

Obi-Wan has to hold his breath as he maneuvers through the blood-stained room. Thick pools of congealed blood lay on the floor, the heat coming from outside amplifying their stench. He picks through them and stops in front of a buzzing console, where hologram lights flicker. There are no buttons left to press, but the lightsaber marks have busted through the console’s shell and all it’ll take for Obi-Wan to open it will be a few well placed cuts.

He ignites his lightsaber in his hand, welcoming the way the Force dances around him as he does. Obi-Wan uses the blade as a scalpel, flicking through the first few layers of metal, until there’s a large square cut through the middle, just large enough for him to stick his hands through . While most of the components are damaged and destroyed, the heart of the console is intact. The memory.

Obi-Wan kneels, trying to avoid brushing against any Neimodians, and sticks his hand out for the component. His robes brush against the edges of the metal. His fingers lock around the component, and with a bit of wiggling, he’s able to extract it and carefully withdraw his hand. When he pulls his sleeve out there’s a few new char marks and the memory component looks a little worse for wear, but it’s better than nothing. Sidious might have something on here that points to whatever compounds the twins are at.

He makes his way back through the room and out of the same door he came in through. As he makes his way down the stairs, Obi-Wan presses the small comlink he has with Artoo, calling the droid to his location.

There’s not much that he can do. Without a solid location, Obi-Wan’s only lead will take him to Imperial Centre, which crawls with darksiders like fleas on a bantha’s back. It’s not somewhere for a Jedi to be, much less for him.

He’d already returned there once. After Padmé got to Poliss Massa and he’d met with Bail and Yoda, they’d decided to go back. The Temple beacon had been activated and the remaining Jedi swarmed around it like flies to rotting meat. 

He still remembers the emptiness of the halls. Sidious was away in the Senate, Vader was still an enigma, and he’d been alone in his grief. For Ahsoka, for Anakin, for the Jedi, and, selfishly, for himself. Part of him was gone with them, and he feared he would never find it again.

Obi-Wan reaches the end of the stairs and braces himself before he pushes open the final door. 

Artoo landed his starfighter, just like Obi-Wan asked, and rocks back and forth on the landing platform when he steps out. Mustafar’s heat falls over him, the air almost too thick to breath. Obi-Wan trundles over to Artoo. He sticks out the memory to the droid, who takes it with a small clawed hand. 

“Scan it, please.”

The droid grumbles, but it listens. As Obi-Wan packs himself, robes and all, into the starfighter, he sighs. He doesn’t close the cockpit, but instead waits for Artoo to finish.

This is his only chance to find the twins. And the longer he waits, the longer they have to endure Sidious. Force knows what Sidious and Vader want with them.

Artoo beeps and Obi-Wan shuffles to face the droid. Its domed head spins and it passes the memory back to him.

“Anything?”

Artoo chirrups sadly. Obi-Wan leans back in the cockpit, blowing a long breath out of his nose. “Blast.”

* * *

Neither of them fight. Instead, they both sit in the throng of clones, chewing on sticky taffy someone smuggled onto the ship, and wait for Bly. 

“Are you sure he’s coming?” Rex asks, raising an eyebrow. Cody, still in his armour, frowns. The lines on his face deepen, and Rex can’t help the pang of concern that runs through him. They’re only 26— though a few months apart— and yet Cody wears his years like shackles. He smiles and jokes and laughs, but he’s tired. He never was very good at hiding that. At least not to Rex.

“Bly’s smart,” Cody leans back on the wall as a brother in the ring throws a nasty right hook and his opponent goes down wailing. Shinies, Rex notes with some amusement. Cody scans the crowd as he talks, “He knows we’ll be here. He won’t pass up the opportunity.”

Rex nods and crosses his arms. They’re at the back of the ring, where the crowd is thinner and the noise is bearable. Their view of the fights is subpar, at best, but it’s tolerable. Besides, they have a view of the whole ring from here. Wherever Bly shows up, they should be able to find him.

As long as he’s okay. There are always rumours with projects as secretive as the Death Star. One clone was apparently killed because he knew too much. Another fell down an unfinished shaft. There are even stories of errant clones being used as target practice by the Imperial elites on board the weapon. Rex chooses not to believe that one. 

“How did you get in contact with him in the first place?” Rex asks, leaning slightly over to Cody. He has to talk directly in the other’s ear just to be heard over the roar of the crowd as the next contenders step up into the ring.

“I didn’t,” Cody yells back, “Still have my commander privileges. Access to the files. ”

“Lucky bastard,” Rex mutters. Anakin had him demoted back down to a rank and file trooper. He said it was already difficult creating his new identity. Anakin said creating a captain out of thin air was even harder. 

Rex gets it. Still, something doesn’t sit right with him, if only because it came from Anakin. There’s something off with the General. It feels like it’s him, but bastardized, twisted. Something close enough to look like him, talk like him, but not be him. At the core, Anakin is different.

There’s no use dwelling on it now. 

“Next fighter,” Cody nudges Rex, who straightens up in his spot. If it’s someone they know, maybe one of the 212th or an old 501st member, like Appo, then they have an opportunity. Getting their chip out will be a pain in the ass, but on a Star Destroyer, it’s doable. Even Anakin had managed to do it. 

And Rex wrote the instructions.

Him and Ahsoka had spent the first few weeks after Order 66 hopping from planet to planet before they landed on the base on Alderaan. Breha warned them of Vader— Anakin— coming but they had so little time to evacuate. 

But they had a plan. Ahsoka picked up mechanics during her time with Anakin and her time on Coruscant, and she’d been able to reduce a datapad down to the bare minimum. Displaying text. They scribbled out instructions to remove the chips, under the hope a clone would find one while searching the base, then begin de-chipping the former GAR. They hadn’t gotten that lucky, but it had done some good. 

Rex sighs and rises up on his feet to better see the ring. The two contenders are evenly matched, same height, one with thick black hair and the other with his head shaved. The shaved one stumbled on his feet, but he threw heavy punches. 

Still, when the other clone was able to jab his palm into his nose, the shaved clone went down and had to force himself back onto his feet. 

They whirl, their positions switch, and Rex leans closer. One of them swipes his nose and grins, his facial tattoos stretching and contorting as he does—

“Fucking hell,” Rex mutters, pushing himself away from the wall and towards the ring. Cody was right. They ran into Bly one way or another. 

He shoves through the crowd. His own face looks back at him glaring, but Rex shoots back a stare strong enough to stop a droid in its tracks. Bly stumbles in the ring, and when the other brother socks him across the face— with perfect form and with his body behind it— Bly’s head moves with the punch. 

Blood splatters on the ring and Bly falls into the ropes. Rex swears under his breath and steps up onto the ring. The clones hem and haw at him, some of them egging him on, but Rex only leans over the ropes and pats Bly’s rapidly bruising face.

Blood flows from his nose, thick and crimson and smelling strongly of metal, “Commander.” 

Bly smiles stupidly. Rex checks his teeth over. While they’re blood covered and smell slightly of alcohol, they’re all there. 

“Come on, Bly,” Cody says, hopping up over the ropes and into the ring. The bright white light drowns out Bly’s skin, making it look paper-white. The blood glistens on the floor and on his face. 

Bly’s opponent smiles from the other side of the ring, baring teeth in a growl. Rex glares back. Cody and him load Bly out of the ring and move through the crowd easily. Eager to move on to the next fight, they move out of his way without a single protest. 

They set him down on one of the benches lining the walls. He won’t have a concussion. 

“I always knew you were a hard head, but I didn’t think you were that bad,” Cody says as Bly drifts back into consciousness. The bloodied clone laughs. 

“Did I win?” He asks jokingly. Rex chuckles, but behind the smiles and the teasing tone in Bly’s voice, his eyes are empty. This was no pleasure match. This was a punishment from Bly to himself. 

Rex knows the feeling well himself.

* * *

The droids are equipped with electroshock spears, not lightsabers, but it hardly matters. Anakin ducks under a swinging spear and uses his crimson lightsaber to slash through it. Before the droid can calculate its next move, Anakin rams his lightsaber through its midsection and slashes upwards, leaving the droid severed and sparking. His lightsaber shuts down with a low hum.

It’s the latest in a long line of droids. 

Anakin wipes his forehead with his sleeve. His training room is painfully silent, to the point where he could hear the blood rushing through his veins. The cleaning droids sweep the room as Anakin tries to breathe, to let his heart calm down. Droid carcasses scatter the ground, metal skeletons crushed and severed and stabbed in all matter of murder. How long has he been doing this, again? 

_Not long enough_ , he thinks to himself as the next droid comes stomping into the wide room. Anakin sighs and drops into a fighting stance. The droid mirrors his position and its spear fizzes to life. The purple electricity arcs around the spear tip. Anakin smiles to himself. He’s grown used to lightning. Electricity is nothing.

With a hiss, his lightsaber lights and he forces himself towards the white-caped droid. It meets each of his strikes with deadly accuracy. The two sides of its spear flash as Anakin jumps backwards and ducks under the strikes, parrying each one perfectly. 

Droids are boring. They’re little more than a distraction. But that’s what he needs right now, and every moment he spends fighting droids, he gets stronger. A little bit better, a little bit quicker, and a little bit closer to Sidious’ level. 

At its next swing, he parries. Anakin throws his weight behind the strike and before the droid can recover, he flicks his blade through its spear. The droid pauses. Anakin’s saber reaches through the gap caused by the severed spear and cuts through the droid’s head, clean and precise.

It’s almost trivial at this point. Anakin stares at the spasming droid. Its servos malfunction and twitch rapidly. It twitches in its last moments. It was too quick, too simple, and everything drifts in too quickly. He deactivates his saber. 

There is a very important birthday today.

The cleaning droid comes in again, and Anakin frowns. He wants to fight, wants to ignore the date, and ignore everything he would’ve been doing if she was still here, but the droids are pointless. He fought so many of them during the war that fighting another droid would be as easy as breathing. They’re a waste of resources and time.

Anakin frowns, and strolls over to the bench propped up against the wall. There are markings on the ground of his training room, acting as guidelines for official duels. A long viewport juts out from the wall. The entrance is on the next level, in case Anakin ever trains an Inquisitor here.

He doesn’t intend on doing training today. Just simple sparring to get his anger out. Anakin grabs the water bottle and datapad on the bench, taking a long swig of water as he calls up the first two Inquisitors he sees. 

Anakin clicks his helmet onto his head. He prefers to train without it. He’s adjusted to the suit but the helmet has always felt too strange. Too clunky for his tastes. But he figures it’s best that the Inquisitors don’t know. Any one of them would sell him out if it meant gaining the Grand Inquisitor’s trust. 

Anakin sways on his feet. Padmé would’ve been twenty-eight today.

They’d never been able to do anything big for their birthdays. Anakin, being born a slave, only has a rough grasp on his age. Converting to Coruscanti years had confused him. For all he knew, he could be twenty-two or twenty-four, not twenty-three. 

Padmé was never like that. Her parents had everything noted or converted properly, and she could say with absolute certainty that she was twenty-seven. She knew her birthday, the type of weather she was born in— rain— and the time down to the seconds. It made it easy back then. 

He’d only been able to spend one of her birthdays with her. Anakin had managed to get back from deployment the day of, and he hadn’t bothered to do so much as get changed. He sped through Coruscant, stopped to pick up flowers, and landed on her balcony a few hours too late.

Anakin crept into the apartment, shushing Threepio as he did so, and shrugged off his robes. Spotted with blaster burns and dirt, it looked out of place in the perfectly orderly apartment. He left the flowers on the counter.

Padmé was already asleep, and Anakin quietly changed into one of several sleep sets he kept in her apartment. Soft black clothes, baggy and made of light cotton. Expensive, but perfect.

She slept with the blinds open. She always did. The Coruscanti nightlight cast long shadows through her room, illuminating her soft form. Padmé looked like a marble statue. Her skin was pale as moonlight. From the doorway, Anakin smiled. He didn’t know what he did to get this lucky. 

Through the Force, which weaved and sang around him, he reached into her mind and gently pulled her from her sleep. He knew she slept with a blaster nearby. Best not to startle her.

Anakin pushed himself off of the doorframe as Padmé shifted, her mind slowly waking up. She groaned and flipped over, and he slowly climbed onto the bed. She was awake, he could tell, but she hadn’t noticed him.

The bed dipped under his weight and one of her eyes groggily opened. “Anakin?”

“Hi,” he murmured, laying down next to her. Still half-asleep, she smiled. Padmé wriggled closer, pressing herself against him. She was always cold while she slept, and he was always hot. Most days he would wake up with her tangled around him, her head resting on his, arms and legs tangled with his. 

“You’re back,” Padmé smiled wider. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Her head slotted perfectly into the space between his neck and shoulder. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Lavender. 

“Happy birthday, love,” Anakin said when she shifted backwards. He smiled. He knew he probably looked dopy. At that moment, he didn’t care. Padmé grinned. 

“Thank you,” she shuffled the covers until he was snugly in the bed, and then wriggled back to him. She set her head on top of his and sighed. He closed his eyes, mechanical hand tangled in her long brown hair, and smiled. He could deal with the war, with Ahsoka leaving, with the Jedi, as long as she was here. As long as they were together. 

“I love you,” he whispered, already drifting off into sleep. The battle today had been hard, his cot even harder. 

As he floated off to sleep, he heard a thin voice whisper back, “I love you more, Ani.”

Anakin closes his eyes as the door whirs open, two sets of footsteps moving into the room. He holds onto that blissful memory of Padmé, her hair smelling like lavender, her skin soft as rose petals. 

He wishes he could feel grief. Instead, all he feels is red hot rage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shortest chapter so far, but this is basically just me putting the trimmings on characters and setting up as much as i can for the immediate next chapter, which is probably one of the most important chapters in the entire fic. i promise it isn't like this next time. sorry if it was a disappointing.
> 
> next chapter: Rex and Bly swap places. The Grand Inquisitor reports back to Anakin. A galaxy-wide broadcast rocks the foundations of the Empire.
> 
> school is really kicking my ass right now (i'm in my first year of high school) but the next four chapters are a shit show of unprecedented magnitude, which means they're a blast to write, so they should be out every monday! sorry for the delay on this one, i have been dealing with a lot of personal stuff (as always) and i can't really express how bad i feel about leaving everyone like that. i'll try harder to hit the deadline next time.
> 
> thanks for reading!
> 
> \- ella
> 
> POSTED 24/09/2020


	18. Dreams of Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rex and Bly swap places. The Grand Inquisitor reports back to Anakin. A galaxy-wide broadcast rocks the foundations of the Empire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sad clown noises*

Before Bly wakes up, Cody rubs pigment on his cheeks, blurring his yellow 327th tattoos until they’re not even visible. Rex dyes and shaves his own blonde hair. They work together to pull off Bly’s commander armour and replace it with Rex’s. Rex, with a steady hand, traces Bly’s tattoos onto his own face. It’s not unlike when he painted Ahsoka’s markings onto the clone helmets, but this time he needs to be precise. The helmets were a gesture. It didn’t matter if they were perfect. These tattoos have to be.

When they’re done, Rex, for all intents and purposes, is Bly. 

“You’ll stay with him?” Rex asks, rubbing a hand over the face paint. It’s heavy-duty, meant for Twi’lek ceremonies, and no matter how much he touches his face, it sticks. 

“Yeah. Until he wakes up.” 

“And you know my schedule?” Rex asks, raising a thin eyebrow. Bly’s helmet— his helmet— is tucked under one arm. 

“Yes, _vod,_ ” Cody says, propping Bly up on a chair. His lip is swollen and one eye is mottled blue and purple. It’s only been a few hours since the fight but Bly continues to sleep. He’s not knocked out, they’ve been able to tell that much, but he’s fallen into a deep sleep. 

It’s probably the only rest he’s gotten in months.

Rex sighs and clicks Bly’s helmet on. Physically, he and Bly are identical, and the helmet fits perfectly. Still, he’s modified his own armour to fit every slight curve or imperfection in his body. Every tiny difference between Bly and any other clone has been accounted for. 

It’s slight enough that Rex still fits into the armour, but as he moves and twists and tries to get used to it, the plates on his wrists click and slide against each other, pinching skin between them. Rex tugs everything into place one more time and then nods at Cody.

“You have my comm?”

“Yes, Rex.”

“Okay. Okay.” Rex mutters, mostly to himself. He’s impersonated other clones— most notably Wolffe all the way back on Sy Myrth, but even that feels like it was years ago— but if he’s caught in the act on the Death Star, he’ll be executed.

They only know two things about the Death Star; its secrecy and its power. It’s a weapon, one so advanced and so powerful that even knowing about it requires security clearance. 

And it’s not like Skywalker bothered to tell them about it either. 

Rex cracks his knuckles. “What happens if someone finds you two in here?”

“I’ll tell them he passed out. Low blood sugar,” Cody says, propping up Bly’s head with a limp pillow they scrounged from the supply closet. 

The closet is jammed somewhere in the corner of the destroyer. It’s not clean by any metric but it’s not dirty either. With enough luck, the sound of the engines should drown out any conversation. The closet is empty and Rex has never seen anyone use it in the days he’s patrolled the corridor outside. 

He hopes that’ll hold true. After the spars last night most clones are reluctant to go back to the ring. There are already rumours about Tarkin himself stumbling upon the ring and ordering the clones in the ring executed. While far off, Rex isn’t willing to risk it. He’s come up with some half-assed plans before, but he’s not stupid. He’s used to taking risks, but not when his brothers might die too. 

So for Bly and Cody’s sake, he needs to be careful. Rex blows a long breath out of his nose and nods at Cody. The commander smiles warmly, and though his eyes are still tired and aching, there’s genuine care in his face. He raises two fingers and jokingly salutes. Rex smiles— though Cody can’t see it — and salutes the same way before stepping out of the room and heading down the corridor. 

The walls are thin and he can hear the groan of the ship as it moves through space. They’re only orbiting around the Death Star, but the Destroyer is still expending energy. Rex is used to being on the bridge. There’s no noise there. They’re perched above the rest of the Star Destroyer up there, far away from the buzz of the engines powering the ship. It is the place of a commander, of a Jedi.

He’s neither of those things.

But the longnecks raised him to weather anything, and so he tunes out the noise. His hearing has been damaged more than once during the war, where bombs were as common as flies, but his station and the insistence of his Jedi meant he was always healed. Some of his brothers weren’t as lucky. 

The clones were expendable. Why would the Republic waste credits healing a clone that could just easily be replaced? Why waste credits on a life-saving surgery when the product will still be damaged afterwards?

Before he heads into the turbolift he looks back down at the hallway. Harsh white lights are flickering overhead, and dust lines the sides of the corridor. Still, his family is here. Cody and Bly are here. And that’s enough for him.

Rex steps into the lift and grabs onto one of the handholds on the side before he presses the up button. Bly’s supposed to leave in a couple of minutes. Cody found the commander’s schedule and Rex has memorized it down to the seconds. He’ll head back to the Death Star on Shuttle 820, monitor security footage from 0900 to 1500, and start his guard of the scientist at 1530 and end at 2100. 

He knows the commander’s protocols well enough. Rex fought with Cody often, and for a few days he was a commander himself. But the protocols might’ve changed on the Death Star. There aren’t any guarantees that he’ll know what to do.

Instead, he just has to trust he’ll make it through. The pigment on his face is as dark as normal tattoos and needs a special solution to rub off. His hair is dyed black and shaved. Bly is no where to be seen. He is a clone. They have no reason to suspect him.

When the lift sways and grunts, Rex lets go of the handhold and steps out of the door as soon as they open. He shakes out his hands and steps forwards. Projecting every ounce of authority and power he has, Rex strides through the corridor the way Bly would. There’s a few whispers as he passes, a couple of stares, but no one seems suspicious. 

At least no one can see that he’s about to piss himself in fear. This kind of gambit was okay during the war, when he had his vod and his Jedi to back him up, but if he fucks up here, there’s no backup. It’s him and two other clones against a machine of soldiers and bureaucrats. Even Skywalker is gone.

And oh how that hurts. There had been few constants throughout the war—his brothers, loss, and his Jedi. He’d lost Ahsoka. He thought he’d still have Anakin. Though he is not flesh and blood the way the rest of the clones are, he’s Rex’s brother all the same.

He doesn’t feel like Anakin is there anymore. The war took things from everyone, but Rex never thought it would take Anakin. The Hero with No Fear, the best of the Jedi, the Republic’s favourite posterboy. Anakin had been entwined with the war to the point where you could not say Skywalker without thinking of it. Perhaps it makes sense that he’s gone with it. 

Rex groans and swerves around a gaggle of officers. His shuttle is leaving any minute now, and it won’t do him any good to be late. 

Though, when he steps into the hangar, every clone avoids his gaze. Rex shuffles down to his shuttle, where the rest of the guard is gathered, and sets his shoulders back.

News of Bly’s defeat last night would’ve already spread. ARC troopers barely lose, and they never lose like _that_. Rex bites the side of his cheek to stop himself from groaning in annoyance. It’s not going to be fun to deal with the aftermath of Bly’s mistake. Rex can’t say he doesn’t understand the feeling, though. Sometimes, he wants to beat out his grief until his fists are bruised red and purple and smeared with blood. It’s a dark impulse, one he hopes he’ll never act on, but it’s still there. Sometimes, he feels like letting someone pummel him into oblivion would be deserved. 

Rex shakes his head and searches for the right shuttle. This Star Destroyer is of old Republic make, with the hangar opening down the middle and the blue particle shields separating them from the cold expanse of space.

Bly’s guard snaps to attention as he passes. 

“At ease, men,” Rex says.

This, at least, isn’t new. Rex was a captain from the first day of the war, and he’s used to commanding his men. It’s familiar, like an old pair of blacks, and for a moment it helps calm the race of his heart.

“Time?” Rex glances at the nearest clone — an unmarked shiny — who scrambles for a chrono. His fingers fumble with it, and though they all wear their helmets, Rex can almost see the worried expression on the shiny’s face. 

“0832, sir.”

Rex jerks his head towards the shuttle, and the guard follows without comment. One by one they file into the shuttle, grabbing the overhead handholds and packing themselves against each other. The pilot, his helmet marked with two tiny wings on the side, hops into the cockpit. Rex waits until the rest of the guard has packed themselves into the shuttle before he gets in and signals the pilot to take off.

The shuttle’s engine is only a muted roar compared to the chatter of the clones. Rex grips the hand-railing and stays still, running a hand over the blasters by his hips. Bly and him wield the same weapons, and Rex was able to get away with using his own DC-17 blasters instead of swapping them for Bly’s. He’s happy he did. 

His blasters carry the war with them. They served beside Ahsoka, Cody, Anakin, Fives, Echo, Tup, and every single person he’s lost. Functionally, they are the same as Bly’s blasters. But he knows the difference.

Their little shuttle trundles out of the hangar bay. It’s small, meant for quick transport, and the Corvettes look like giants compared to them.

The shuttle dips between the lines of the Destroyer, curving around outcrops and trenches. They flip over onto the other side of the Destroyer, the one facing the Death Star, and Rex’s heart stutters.

The Death Star is only a skeleton right now, with a small core and a a few finished areas. There are functioning rooms attached to the skeleton of the weapon. Through the pilot’s viewport, Rex can only see so much, but every single curve of the Death Star is new information to him. Ships flock to and from its surface like gnats on a bantha, pulling walls behind them and attaching tubes to the Death Star. Their shuttle moves through the skeleton, heading towards a small, finished area, and Rex can’t help but gape. 

When it’s finished, it’ll be the size of a small moon. There’s only so many purposes for a weapon of that side, and all of them spell disaster for the Rebellion. 

Rex’s plan shifts inside his head. He wanted to know how the weapon worked, how it could be destroyed, but now he just wants to get off of the Death Star and back to Dantooine. They have no chance to destroy it, with running as their only option.

He hopes he can get to them in time. 

* * *

The people gathered in front of the palace might as well be droids. Conversation buzzes between them, but to his ears it seems like binary. They’re props for Sidious’ play. 

Mas Amedda stands in front of a furnace, piles upon piles of lightsabers next to him. From a balcony overlooking the crowd, Anakin stands. Sidious looks out over the crowd with him. They can’t see them, but the crowd is still apprehensive. Sidious has managed to permeate every corner of the Empire. Like a god, watching stoically and silently from the sky. 

The crowd shuffles and brushes against one another but there’s a thick undercurrent of worry, of apprehension. The public hasn’t liked the Jedi since before the war. Anakin knows this. He knows it was an intentional move on Sidious’ part.

Anakin still hasn’t unravelled all of it. How Sidious had rose to power, how he’d manipulated the masses like pieces on a dejarik board, but he can figure out some of it. It seems obvious now. If only he’d noticed before Padmé died. Maybe this would all be easier. Simpler. Even if the Republic fell, even if the Jedi fell, he would be okay as long as he was with her. He knows they could do it together. 

But Padmé isn’t here.

Anakin’s breath shudders in his chest as Mas Amedda slams his staff on the ground. Sidious is almost casual next to him, crumpled form deceptively frail, but the dark side curls around him like a pet around its master. From their place on the balcony the crowd looks like ants, Mas Amedda’s blue body the only identifiable thing, but that won’t last for long.

They’re perched above the crowd, across from Mas Amedda, with a near perfect view of the furnace. The aide clears his throat and, in a booming voice, begins to speak. Anakin doesn’t listen. He’s heard Amedda enough times to know that everything he says is straight from Sidious’ mouth. He’s nothing but a puppet to be moved and flung around on Palpatine’s command. 

Besides, he knows what’s about to happen.

The lightsabers piled next to Amedda once belonged to Jedi like him. They were all taken from the temple, or from the bodies of dead Jedi, and have been stored inside the Inquisitorius for the past eight months. Now, there’s enough of them to make a spectacle of their destruction.

Anakin’s own lightsaber hangs heavy by his side. He’s found solace in fighting. There’s a predictability that comes with it, a dance of sorts. It’s a zero sum game where his wins will balance with his opponent’s losses. In those moments it’s only him and his blade and the person standing in his way, and he can forget about Obi-Wan and the Jedi and Padmé. They fade away and he can feel like he’s okay again.

But in these moments, his mind spins stories of Padmé and the family they could’ve had. Eventually, his attention slips away from whatever speech is being made, and he starts thinking about her. Waking up in the morning, his head tucked safely into the curve of her neck, or making breakfast for the squalling child in the next room. In those dreams, everyone is alive. Sidious is dead. There is no war. Everything is okay.

They are only stories.

“My lords.”

Though his helmet hides his look of shock, Anakin’s hands still jerk in surprise. The Inquisitor’s voice is low, slightly accented, and has a self satisfied drawl to it. He’d been so immersed in his thoughts that the Inquisitor’s coiled presence hadn’t alerted him, and he hadn’t known there’d be an impromptu meeting between them.

Still, he turns to the Inquisitor and nods. The Pau’an gives him a tight-lipped smile before he turns to Sidious. The Emperor smiles at it, though Anakin feels a sharp spike through their bond. It’s only half there and they’re both shielding as best they can but Sidious’ surprise still leaks through.

Neither of them knew the Inquisitor would be here. Anakin makes sure he shields before he even stops to consider what that means.

Neither of them want him here. Neither of them know what the Inquisitor wants. For once, Anakin and Sidious are on equal ground. This time, there’ll be no tricks between them, no deception. They’re allies. 

“Inquisitor,” Sidious addresses him stiffly, turning from the ceremony below. He holds his hands in front of him. The natural light highlights the pallor of Sidious’ face. “What do you want?”

The snap in Sidious’ voice makes Anakin’s muscle tense instinctively— lightning always follows that snap— but this time it’s not directed towards him.

“My apologies for interrupting,” he bows shallowly, and Anakin raises an eyebrow. The Inquisitor is officially beholden to him, but he knows that he reports directly to Sidious instead. He knows he does not respect him. So if he’s putting on a show, it’s either to grovel or to convince Sidious of his loyalty. Anakin doubts the Emperor cares what his underlings think of him (of Vader, he tells himself, not Anakin, _Vader_ ).

“Get on with it, Inquisitor,” Sidious snaps. Anakin is content to hang back and watch from the sidelines.

“I’m here for clarification on my orders. I was ordered to kill a Jedi, but it was retracted a few hours later. What am I meant to be doing?”

“You interrupted us for a matter that could’ve been resolved within minutes?” Sidious says. His voice is like the rasp of stone against stone. 

“I was unable to contact either of you,” the Inquisitor smiles tightly, “Your schedules are rather full.”

“Get to the point,” Anakin answers, his deep baritone voice stilling the air in the room. The vocoder is useful for one thing, at least.

“Ahsoka Tano. What am I meant to do with her?”

Sidious glances at Anakin for just a second, but Anakin tenses. Ahsoka is to become an Inquisitor. Had he not made that clear? If the Inquisitors got to her beforehand, killed her, hurt her, he would lose the one person he still had alive. The one person still there for him. 

“She’s to be trained,” Anakin responds before Sidious. He can feel his anger building in his chest. There is no room for negotiation here. Ahsoka will be brought in alive and trained. If the Inquisitor hurts her he won’t hesitate to find him a replacement. 

The Inquisitor presses his lips together. “I don’t think Tano is a suitable candidate.”

“Oh?” Sidious says airily. “Please, Inquisitor. Elaborate on that.”

Anakin narrows his eyes. He’s not letting the Inquisitor win. Not on something like this. There can’t be any half-measures with Ahsoka’s life. 

“She worked closely with the Order during the Siege of Mandalore. She was a loyal Jedi and has never shown any proclivities towards the dark. Trying to turn and train her would be a waste of time and would yield only a subpar Inquisitor.”

Below, Mas Amedda continues his speech. Anakin frowns. He knows Ahsoka. He knows she’d never turn to the dark. She’d never been like him, who had always stood on the balancing point between the light and the dark. Ahsoka had been good. She had been undeniably rooted in the light despite everything that had happened to her. 

Sidious raises an eyebrow— though he doesn’t have any anymore — and Anakin steps forward. “She was exiled for a crime she did not commit. Ah- Tano has no love for the order. They offered her a place back and she denied. She has no reason to stay loyal. Giving her an opportunity like this might be all she needs to fall.”

“Is it really worth the expenses we’d be using? She may fall, but will she be enough? Will she be worth the time and effort I put into training her?” the Inquisitor says with the even tone of someone used to being in power. “It’d be easier to kill her. We could dispatch one Inquisitor instead of multiple troops and myself, and they wouldn’t have to worry about keeping her alive. The job would be done. It would be clean.”

“Have you fought Tano?” Anakin says. 

“What?”

“Have you fought Tano? In training? In combat? During her trial?” 

“N-no, my lord, but she was only a padawan when she left, captured by clones—”

“Tano took on Darth Maul and won. She wielded dual lightsabers during the second year of her apprenticeship. She was sixteen when the council offered to knight her.”

“Given the circumstances, I hardly think that’s a fair asse—”

“I have already made the decision, Inquisitor. Ahsoka Tano will be more than worth the effort spent capturing and training her. Your job is not to question. It is to obey,” Anakin lets his anger seep into his voice. No half-measures. Ahsoka’s life is not a bargaining chip.

The Inquisitor’s gaze softens and he glances to the Emperor. In the decadent room, lined with statues and paintings, Sidious is still enough to be a wall decoration. The ceremony continues outside but Anakin keeps his gaze focused on the Grand Inquisitor. His helmet prevents the Pau’an from being able to see his face, but he hopes the message gets across anyways.

“You heard Lord Vader, did you not?” Sidious says, “Leave us.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes narrow for a second before he nods and turns around. His posture is perfect, as straight as a lightsaber, but in the second before the turbolift doors close around him, his shoulders slump. Anakin smiles. The afternoon light flooding through the windows casts everything in a warm yellow glow and this small victory feels golden.

Sidious sighs, and Anakin turns to his master. With slow strides Sidious makes his way back out onto the balcony, where Mas Amedda is nearing the end of his speech.

“Why did you defend Tano?” Sidious asks like he’s asking what Anakin had for dinner last night.

“I—” 

“Don’t lie, Lord Vader. You’re exceptionally bad at it.”

Anakin’s heart stutters in his chest, “She could be an asset.”

“She was your apprentice.”

“She was Skywalker’s apprentice. Not mine.”

“You defended her like she was.”

Anakin opens his mouth to defend his decision but his words turn to ashes on his tongue. Ahsoka is not his apprentice, he was Anakin’s. And he’s supposed to be Vader. But he’d acted like she was still his padawan, his little sister, because she is. He’s still Anakin. He’s still him. 

“I expected this,” Sidious sighs and looks forward to the ceremony below. The piled lightsabers are being wheeled forward, near the furnace, and Anakin has a sinking feeling of what’s about to happen next. 

“You have always loved too much, my boy,” Sidious says it like a curse and Anakin feels it like one. His master continues as the lightsabers are brought closer and closer to the furnace. “It’s your strength, but it’s also your weakness.”

Anakin keeps his eyes trained on the lightsabers. Mas Amedda picks up the first lightsaber and hoists it above the crowd, who cheers as he does. Anakin missed the speech, but he understands the message well enough when Mas Amedda, in a slightly scratchy voice, says, “Thus, tyranny ends!”

He tosses a small shoto lightsaber into the furnace, the guards around him dumping the rest of the lightsabers into the furnace with it. Anakin’s throat tightens. 

“Are you sure Tano will fall?” Sidious says. He watches the furnace with something near indifference.

“Yes, my master. I know her well. She resents the Jedi,” Anakin answers.

Mas Amedda grins and a guard passes him a torch. It illuminates the soft flesh of his face, turning blue skin to white, before Amedda throws the torch into the already hot furnace.

The world lights up in blue.

A pillar of energy surges out of the furnace, the Force swirling around it like a hurricane around its eye. Anakin watches it, rapt, feeling the energy of the Jedi burn out of the furnace and then dissipate into the air like a dying breath. Sidious takes joy in it. Their bond is growing stronger, though Anakin still shields his mind from any of Sidious’ probes. It doesn’t stop him from feeling Sidious’ emotions, or from Sidious feeling his.

So he can’t tell if the satisfaction blooming in his chest is from Sidious or himself. 

* * *

The Force rolls around him like a bowstring pulled taut, and Anakin can’t figure out why. He knows that sometimes, when he isn’t shielding, his own worries leak into the Force, but this isn’t one of those times. His shields have been drawn up constantly since Order 66, half to prevent Sidious from finding his traitorous thoughts and half to prevent himself from feeling the loss of Obi-Wan and Padmé. 

Anakin stares at the ceiling, mentally checking off anything that might’ve happened. Luke and Leia are sleeping. The Inquisitors are too far away for him to be feeling them. Ahsoka isn’t anywhere nearby— not that he can tell— and Sidious is quiet. 

The Force tightens around him. Anakin’s mind glosses over the possibility of Rex coming back, because he could feel the clone’s mind no matter how hard he was shielding, and there’s no way he’d be able to make it off of the Death Star without help from a superior officer. 

“Fuck,” Anakin mutters. The Force tightens around him and his heart picks up. His skin is hot and clammy, and he can feel his heartbeat in his stomach. Something is wrong but he can’t tell what it is, and his worry claws its way under his skin like a parasite. 

The twins are safe. He’s safe. There’s no one outside, no one coming to kill him, so why does he feel like he’s about to die? The Force tightens around him—

And then it snaps. 

A shrill tone rings through the air and Anakin shoots up in his bed, lightsaber flying into his hand, and his holocommunicator turns on by itself. A blue figure flares to life, taking up the entirety of his room and burning his eyes.

They flicker for a bit, and their voice is garbled. Static buzzes before they flicker into view, voice as clear as a bell.

And Anakin’s confusion dies on his tongue.. He knows that figure. He knows that face.

“People of the Empire,” she announces, and Anakin’s sob breaks loose from his throat. 

Padmé.

And it’s her— he knows that voice. The gentle curve of her cheek. The rose-petal lips. She is clear and real and undeniably _there_. Anakin pushes himself out of the bed and slowly, as if she’ll vanish if he gets too close, moves towards her.

“My name is Senator Padmé Amidala. I’m speaking on behalf of the Alliance to Restore the Republic,” she says. 

The Rebels? 

But Anakin does not focus on that, instead focusing on the light cadence of her voice and the realness of her form. 

“The Emperor has lied to you. The war was a ploy for him to gain power, as was the slaughter of the Jedi,” Padmé’s voice is senatorial, diplomatic, and he revels in it. “He has lied and cheated and manipulated his way to the Empire. He has never cared about you. He never will.”

Her voice is diplomatic. It’s the one he’s heard her use in the Senate, during negotiations, sometimes during fights. It’s not the one he’s used to, but it’s her. 

“Padmé,” he says. Her name is sweet on his tongue. He stretches into the Force and reaches for her, meeting her lavender presence and it feels like coming home. Her face twitches and she pauses for a moment. Anakin can feel her, through the holo, across the galaxy, to wherever she is. But she is not Force-sensitive and the most she’ll feel is a light pressure against her mind. 

“Emperor Palpatine has been working against the Republic from his earliest days of politics. He wants nothing but power, and he’ll stop at nothing to get it. He worked with Count Dooku to create the Separatists, the clones, and the war. All of the times Count Dooku snuck behind enemy lines, the times the Separatists knew where we would be before we got there— all of it was intentional. It was planned,” Padmé’s voice rises. Anakin smiles. 

“He wanted the chaos. He needed you scared. He needed you to value security over freedom, because that way you would accept the Empire. He needed the galaxy to be in a state of disarray for the Senate to grant emergency powers,” Padmé’s lip curls angrily, her voice like a battle cry, “And he partnered with Dooku to do it.”

She takes a deep breath before she continues. Padmé is incandescent, and Anakin blinks away his tears, because she’s here and she’s alive. 

(He does not think of Sidious’ lies).

“When I was still Queen of Naboo, the trade federation attacked my home. Palpatine pushed me to call for a vote of no confidence in Chancellor Valorum— a decision I now regret— in order to secure his seat as Chancellor. I was _fourteen—_ ” she says, voice rocking like a boat on the ocean, “—and I was vulnerable, and he was the one who told me to call for the vote. When I said no, he pushed and pushed until I called for it, because he knew that he would win the seat of Chancellor.” 

“Once he was elected, he shredded the foundations of the Republic, creating laws that only served to alienate planets and senators so that the Separatists’ offer of independence was irresistible. He deregulated the banks to create more clone soldiers, and when I asked for peace, for diplomacy, he refused. Over the three years of the war, not once did he try to meet with Dooku and discuss peace. Not once did he try to end the war through anything other than bloodshed.”

Surely Anakin is not the only one to see this. It overrode his comlink and forced itself to life— it will have done the same for Sidious. 

Anakin’s heart burns when he thinks of the man. He won’t lose Padmé. Not again. Not ever. Fuck the Emperor and his orders. He’d rip the galaxy to pieces if it meant she was safe.

Padmé continues, her tone steady, “Our chancellors have always been limited to two terms of four years, yet Palpatine served for thirteen. He refused to give up emergency powers after the war, and created Moffs to control each section of the galaxy. And when we were at our weakest, when the Jedi were gone and Dooku was dead, he destroyed our Republic. He made an Empire, one where the Senate has no say and he has all the power.”

He paces around the projection. It’s late and he’s tired, but for now he’s wide awake. Does she know he’s alive? Has she looked for him?

“The Republic was founded on democracy. We are meant to be rational but instead we are led by a tyrant. Tell me— is there any way for Palpatine to be overthrown? Do the people have any say in how they are led? If you decide he doesn’t represent you, do you have any way to contest his leadership?” 

Anakin smiles. Ever the debater.

“What happens when he leads you into another war, one even more devastating than the clone wars? When he lets his citizens starve, when he enslaves Wookiees, when he murders his opponents, can you stop him? When he ignores your plights, can you talk to him? Or will he ignore you the way he’s ignored everyone else who’s contested his leadership?” 

Padmé’s voice rises until it’s crackling through the room. She takes a deep breath and steadies herself before closing her eyes and speaking calmly and precisely.

“Palpatine is a tyrant. Under his rule, the people have no power, and our once-great Republic has been reduced to one man’s playground. He doesn’t care about you, he only cares for himself. And the one group that could’ve stopped him is dead.”

“The Jedi are not evil.”

_Wrong._

“They have always stood for freedom and peace, and they were murdered for it. How many planets did they save during the war, and how many Jedi died to protect the Republic? They were a threat to Palpatine’s power, and he knew it. The supposed attempt on his life by the Jedi was a farce to destroy them. They tried to arrest him for collusion with the Separatists, and he retaliated by killing them.”

Anakin can feel the blood of the Jedi slipping over him, see the younglings he saved, feel the heartbeat of the clones he killed slipping away, and he shoves it all down.

“The Jedi led our people in this war. They sacrificed everything to protect us. Obi-Wan Kenobi, Mace Windu, Yoda, Anakin Skywalker— all of them great Jedi who dedicated their lives to serving the Republic. And Palpatine ordered them all slaughtered without trial, like they were pests being exterminated. 

His name falls from her lips, familiar and whispered like a prayer. Anakin laughs but it comes out as a sob instead.

“He stripped the clones of any dignity or rights by implanting a control chip into their heads at conception, and used it to force them to obey him. He used them as tools and not human beings.”

So they know about the control chips. 

Anakin’s mind is split, one half thinking like General Skywalker, focused on the Rebellion and the coup and how it’ll feel to finally have Sidious’ dark presence fall out of the Force, but the other half is Anakin, and all he can think of is Padmé, alive and in front of him. 

“Palpatine refused to negotiate. He refused to listen. He refused to tell you the truth. You may not see it, but he is a man after nothing but power. He has already shown that he is willing to do whatever it takes to suppress those who disagree with him.”

“He faked my death to do so. Palpatine has spun stories of my death at the hands of Jedi, used me as a martyr for the people to rally behind, but I am alive. I know the truth. And I refuse to hide it any longer,” her voice reaches a crescendo. 

Anakin furrows his brow. Of course Sidious had a hand in Padmé’s ‘death’. He’d come to expect that from the Sith Lord.

His grip tightens around his lightsaber. Sidious hid her from him. He lied to Anakin for the last time. He’ll see him dead, but first he’ll find Padmé. She’ll know what to do. They’ll deal with this together. And then they can be a family. He smiles at the thought.

(Surely if Padmé lives, their child must be alive).

“Palpatine is a monster. There is no other word for someone like him. He has schemed and plotted his way to power, and as a citizen of the republic, I refuse to sit idly by and let it happen.”

“The Rebel Alliance will uphold justice and democracy no matter what. We will not let this Empire stand.”

Padmé looks straight ahead, into his eyes, and he smiles, the stress of the last few months falling away from him. Her tone grows soft.

“I speak to you not as a Senator or as a Queen, but as a citizen of the Republic. Our galaxy does not belong to one man, it belongs to us. Do not watch as Palpatine destroys everything we have built. Do not let him win.”

“Fight, and together we can reclaim the democracy our forefathers built,” Padmé smiles, warm and inviting, the perfect symbol of the Rebellion. 

She’s alive. They can be together again and it’ll be like everything is okay, like everything is normal, and this time he’ll keep her safe. He won’t lose her again. 

She’s alive, and everything he’s done against Sidious was for nothing at all.

“May the Force be with you.”

“I love you,” he murmurs, though he knows she cannot hear him. 

Anakin reaches for her as the projection flickers out, and for a moment it is as if she was there with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am running before you can catch me ;)
> 
> POSTED 21/10/2020
> 
> edit on october 23rd, 2020: hello i am about 1/2th through the next chapter and i am hoping to update this coming monday, on the 26th!


	19. Even Stars Burn Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin lets go. After her broadcast, Padmé tries to evacuate the rebel base.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *faint sound of clown shoes squeaking as i run away*
> 
> me? getting into a regular update schedule? it's more likely than you think !
> 
> anyways this chapter is an absolute MONSTER and clocks in around 13k, so make sure you have water and go to the washroom before you sit down and read it
> 
> for maximum pain listen to [this playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3j5bIw3na7ovvdnrtNDWHx?si=PW3S4xDITO24iVvKj3B4Kg) because it's the one i was listening to while writing this chapter :D

Anakin pays the clone troopers no mind. They’re only there as a formality. Still, the small turbolift feels cramped as the three of them shoot up the building towards the apartment.

He steels himself and tries to breathe. If this is going to work, he’ll have to be calm and logical. That’ll net him the best case scenario. It’ll still be worthwhile if he succumbs to his emotions (and deep down he knows he will, because he always succumbs to his emotions, no matter how hard he tries not to) but the damage done to his relationship with Organa will be near irreversible. It’s a sacrifice he’ll have to make.

If it means he can find Padmé, it’ll be worth it. Organa is irrelevant— an ally, but not a necessary one. And if losing him means finding Padmé, it’ll be worth it. 

She’s alive. It seems like a dream, one where the war is over and Anakin spends his days raising his family and tinkering with machines, where the days feel like salvation and, for once, the Force is peaceful. 

He doubts that’ll happen anytime soon, but they’ll be together again and that’s close enough for him. He wanted revenge for Ahsoka, for Obi-Wan, but most of all for Padmé, and she’s here. Ahsoka is alive and if she was able to survive then surely Obi-Wan must be out there somewhere. He thought he lost everything, thought Sidious took it from him, but they’re all here. 

He can live with that. If it means his family is safe, Anakin will serve Sidious. As long as they’re alive, he can bear it. He just has to find them first. 

The turbolift doors slide open. Senator Organa is only just coming down the stairs, dressed in a simple blue robe. The Force burns around him. He’s pulled taut and, in his anxiety, Anakin finds solace. He would’ve known about the broadcast tonight, and his sheer state of anxiousness proves he had something to do with it. There’s a chance he’s concerned about Vader showing up in the middle of the night, but Organa is used to impromptu visits. He’s a politician, and has been in his fair share of life-threatening situations. No, he’d only be this nervous if he had something to hide. 

“Check the apartment,” Anakin says to the two clone troopers tailing him. They flit off past Organa, who watches them pass with a slightly incredulous look. The senator glances at them and then back at Anakin, who stares for a few seconds. He knows. 

“Tell me where she is,” Anakin says, keeping his voice as calm as possible. Organa’s hair is slightly mussed but his baggy pants are perfectly creased. The robe he wears is plush and seems soft to the touch. Even surprised, he looks like a senator.

“Pardon?” Organa says. His voice is heavy with sleep but there’s a stiff undercurrent to it. Organa knows. He has to. The man has been against Sidious since the early days of the war, and there is no way the Rebellion would’ve gotten this far without aid from someone in the Senate. Bail is the only one with the balls to go against the Empire. 

So he has to know. Anakin paces around him like an animal circling its prey. “Padmé Amidala. Where is she?”

“S-She’s dead, my lord. On Naboo.” Organa’s head swivels to follow him as he moves. Anakin sighs but through his vocoder it comes out as a burst of static. The sound makes Organa’s pulse jump, and Anakin smiles. 

He reaches out with a hand and follows the thrum of electricity through the Force, and turns on every single one of Organa’s holoprojectors, handheld or otherwise. Padmé’s message blares to life on each, and her voice begins to recite the same speech Anakin has had on repeat for hours. They’re ever so slightly out of sync with each. Her blue figure is the brightest thing in the room, and Organa spins as they all light up at once.

Anakin lets him sit in surprise for a moment. He lowers his shields just enough for some of his anger to spread out into the room. The air grows colder. Sooner his is over, the better. 

Organa watches Padmé’s speech. One hand strokes his stubbled chin as he does. When Padmé’s a few minutes into the speech and Organa is completely immersed in his own thoughts, Anakin steps closer.

“Amidala is alive. Where is she?” Anakin asks. Organa’s chest heaves and he clutches his robe tighter to his body. His throat bobs as he swallows. He’s shielding but his fear rises through the room like smoke. The notes of the Force are tangled around him.

“I don’t know, my lord.” 

Anakin stalks towards him. “Don’t lie to me, Senator. I know about your ties to the Rebels. There’s no point in pretending you think she’s dead. Tell me where she is, and this will be over. You can go back to bed. Just tell me where Padmé is.” 

Organa’s dark eyes are downcast and Anakin can practically see the gears spinning in his head. He shouldn’t underestimate the man. Organa has been a politician since Anakin was no more than a slave boy on Tatooine. But Organa has everything to lose, and Anakin has nothing. 

“I don’t know what Rebels you’re talking about. We’ve already dealt with the ones on Alderaan. Are there more?” Organa asks. His forehead is creased and smile lines spread outwards from his eyes. 

“Are there more?”Anakin laughs sharply, “Don’t play with me, Organa.”

The clones finish their sweep and file out of the rooms. The pair stops near Anakin, who keeps his eyes focused on Organa. The Senator keeps his chin held high, an unspoken challenge clear in his eyes. Anakin curls his fists. Something that speaks of power and revenge hangs heavy in his chest, whispering of how easy it would be to wrap his fingers around Organa’s throat and crush the answers out of him. Anakin shoves it aside but doesn’t push it down. He lets it wrap around him, flooding his veins with strength. It holds him like a lover.

“Leave us,” Anakin snarls. While he keeps his eyes on Organa, he speaks to the clones, and they rush past him and back to the turbolift without another word or even a glance in his direction. He waits until the doors close, and then a few seconds more, before he begins to move around Organa’s apartment.

It’s nice. Muted colours and framed pictures of the Alderaanian landscape, of Organa and his wife. It’s the picture of a successful man with a loving family and a good job. Nothing on the surface suggests any involvement with rebels, but Anakin knows Organa better than that. He’s never been one to sit and let others do the work, and the only way the Rebellion would’ve been able to get this far would’ve been with his help. It’s just a matter of getting Organa to admit it.

He glances back at the man. It’d be easy to batter down his shields and sift through his mind until he finds what he needs, but that’ll leave Organa a babbling mess incapable of any intelligent thought. A figure as respected as Organa being left like that would inspire ‘civil disobedience’, as Sidious puts it, and if Anakin wants Padmé with him, he can’t afford to be on Sidious’ bad side.

(Or, his worse side, considering Sidious doesn’t exactly have a good side).

Though, Anakin has evidence. He smiles to himself, glad for the privacy of his suit, and turns to face Organa. It feels like lifetimes ago that he crammed himself through the vents of his Star Destroyer and down into the engines, all to send a simple message, but he remembers it well enough. Enough to lie.

“We have a confession,” he says, carefully monitoring Organa through the Force. There’s a miniscule spike before the man smothers his Force signature in memories of speeches and picnics in the mountains, though his fear and worry still leak through. 

“There’s nothing they could’ve confessed to,” Bail says, pulling his sleeping robe tighter around himself, idly pacing around the room. They circle each other, and Anakin lets that dark thing inside of him feed off of the fear radiating from Organa. It swells and, with it, Anakin’s power.

“An Imperial defector. They say they sent you a message with schematic of the Spire on Stygeon Prime, as well as the profile of Jedi Luminara Unduli.” Anakin says, watching Organa’s face twitch as he speaks. 

There’s little that’s sweeter than victory. Organa freezes, and he recovers a second too late. 

“She escaped a few weeks later.” Anakin tilts his head.

He knows little about the escape itself. Sidious had called him to his chambers and had beat any curiosity out of him. Anakin didn’t want to even think about the case after that. He knew the Grand Inquisitor had been there, fought the rebels, but failed. The extent of his knowledge ends there, but it has to be enough to convince Organa. 

Anakin knows just as much as Organa on that front. He’d sent the schematics himself, wedged himself between pipes to do so, and sent them straight to the senator. 

“I wasn’t involved with any of that. I didn’t know Master Unduli lived,” Organa stares straight ahead as Anakin flits around his apartment trying to quell the energy burning through him. It’d be so easy to rip the answers out of Organa. He knows he’s involved with the rebels. He just needs to admit to it.

He could tell Organa the truth.

It wouldn’t be difficult. Take off his helmet, explain why he needs to find Padmé, and then Organa would have to have some measure of empathy for him. Padmé and him would be together again, and she would be safe. And Organa would know his identity.

There are always acceptable sacrifices. 

But there are other ways to get Padmé’s location— ones that won’t earn him the ire of his master. Sidious had been clear. Anakin wasn’t to remove his helmet unless he was alone or with Sidious. And while he has always been one to cut through rules like ribbons, he’s learned that Sidious is to be obeyed whenever possible. Even when it comes to Padmé. 

So instead he sighs and paces closer to Organa. “Tell me where she is and this will be easy.”

“I don’t know,” Organa says. 

“Liar.” Anakin spits. Organa has to understand the predicament he’s in. Anakin isn’t leaving until he gets the location— which he  _ knows _ Organa has— and the senator has to know that as well as he does. 

He frowns. While he won’t kill Organa, he can act like he will.

His lightsaber is hot in his hand, the crystal roaring to life as Anakin pulls it out of its hilt. It activates with a hiss, like water hitting a boiling stone. Red light spreads through the room. Organa steps backwards, but the Force aids Anakin, and before the Senator can get more than a few paces away from him, Anakin has the angry red lightsaber at his throat. Organa is pressed over one of his decadent purple chairs, leaning over it to try and create some kind of distance between his neck and Anakin. Anakin steps closer. All he has to do is move his wrist ever so slightly up, and the saber will burn through Organa’s neck. It’s almost tempting. Organa has been nothing but frustrating.

“Please,” Organa whispers. Though his fear is evident his voice is strong, as if he were the one in control. His eyes flick from the saber to Anakin’s face. 

“I don’t want to play any games,” Anakin’s voice is low, almost inhuman, and the vocoder makes it sound like the snarl of a beast. “Tell me where she is.”

Organa’s mouth is pressed into a thin line. Bitter and strong, his fear surges through the Force like a wave. He closes his eyes. There’s no telling what game he’s playing at, but Anakin knows he has to win. The senator, still bent over the chair as Anakin stands in front of him, takes a deep breath.

He opens his eyes and looks up at him. Once placid, Organa’s eyes now burn with all of the passion and righteousness Anakin has come to expect from him. He curls his lip ever so slightly, and Anakin’s blood roars in his ears.

“You’re not going to win. I’ve made my decision, Vader. Make yours. Give up, and run back to your master with nothing, or kill me and damn yourself.”

Anakin laughs.

Organa doesn’t understand it, and he didn’t expect him to. To him, Vader has been amicable, someone close to Sidious, but who posed no real threat, who was willing to negotiate and trade honeyed words. Anakin is done being merciful. 

He flicks off his lightsaber and clicks it back onto his hilt, stepping back and letting Organa sit up from the chair. The Force coos to him while Anakin reaches for it, stoking his anger and letting it grow from embers to a blaze.

Organa brushes himself off, and Anakin raises his hand and squeezes.

The Force whips itself around him like a maelstrom, letting pure power flow through his veins as Anakin steadily draws on the bone-deep anger inside of himself. Organa’s eyes grow wide as pressure envelops his throat. Anakin tenses his fingers, and Organa gasps for air that does not come.

“Tell me.”

He slackens his grip for a moment, lets Organa breathe, and then clenches his fist. His skin is growing red, hands tugging at his throat as if that will help, and Anakin narrows his eyes. While he keeps his arm raised, keeps the Force around Organa’s neck, he reaches out and taps on the man’s shields.

When Organa squeezes his eyes closed, tears drip out. Anakin hammers away at his shields, slow and persistent, not trying to break them down, but rather trying to break Organa. He can sense his resolve slipping away as Organa chokes for air, his body flailing, trying to break above a surface that isn’t there. 

_ Tell me where she is, and I’ll let you live,  _ Anakin whispers, feeding the words straight from his mind to Organa’s. He can feel the man’s terror as it pools within the Force, sweet and terrible in the same bite.

Bail’s hands slam at his throat and his legs beat against the ground. His mouth gapes, lips struggling to form words, and when Anakin loosens his grip, he chokes out a single word before Anakin lets him drop to the floor completely.

“Chandrila.” 

Anakin smiles. He crouches down, where Bail lays crumpled, his sides heaving as he takes in the first proper gasp of air in what must feel like hours. He doesn’t know it, but Bail has brought them back together. Being a senator means helping, does it not? Bail reuniting two lovers is a story that he can tell at Senate galas for ages. 

“I wish you a quick recovery, Senator Organa.” Anakin smiles as he stands up, turning away from Bail and heading towards the turbolift. He doesn’t have to wait for it to open, but rather pushes it open with a hard shove from the Force. Anakin steps in and turns back around. “Keep this between us, will you? As friends.”

The turbolift door closes and Bail falls into shadow again as Anakin heads down the apartment building.

Chandrila. It sounds like music to him, a promise of her, of their family, of Padmé.

Anakin cannot lose her again. He thought everything had slipped through his hands like a dying breath but it’s here. Ahsoka is alive, Padmé is alive, and if they were able to make it then his master has to be alive. Everything he thought he had lost was here. Safe.

And Sidious hasn’t hurt him in a way that matters. Everyone he loved was alive. What had he taken from him now? What had Sidious done to him? 

He had stopped the war. The galaxy was at peace. There was no more bickering in the Senate, and there was a decisive and strong leader who instilled justice across the galaxy. The Jedi were gone, but, Anakin muses, perhaps that was for the best.

They’d become dogmatic, blinded by their own power. They saw themselves as righteous. All of the years Anakin had stayed with them, he had been miserable, drowning in his own power, and they had sat by and refused to help him. 

He doesn’t know if they deserved to die, but he doesn’t know if they’re innocent either. All he knows is that whenever he thinks of their destruction, there’s a satisfaction that blooms in his chest, filling up his body with warmth.

* * *

Overhead, the Star Destroyer hovers. It doesn’t move, but every few minutes a swarm of ships rises from its skin and rains down on Chandrila like meteors. Padmé can only watch, clutching her blaster in her hands, trying to hold off the incoming clones as long as she can. She’s made her broadcast. And while the rest of the rebels escape, she’ll stay here. There’s no telling what’ll happen to her. Torture and questioning, most likely. A public execution. And, knowing the things Sidious can do, the things that Vader can do, Padmé can only guess at what’ll happen to her. They’re not Jedi. They have more than petty mind tricks.

As Padmé watches the ships descend, firing stun bolts from her blaster at incoming clones, she can only hope Obi-Wan’s found Luke and Leia by now. If the Empire still has them when she’s captured, they won’t need mind tricks for her to confess, though she doesn’t want to verbalize that.

Sometimes, her all-consuming love for them scares her. She’s loved like this before, with Anakin, but she knew he was able to protect himself. He was a Jedi. He spent most of his days in the outer stretches of the galaxy. Padmé’s place was in the Senate. That was where she could protect him. But the twins are children, helpless children who have barely begun to come into their abilities.

This is where she can protect the twins. Give them a better future. A galaxy they could shape themselves. Even if it’s without her. It’s too late for her to leave Chandrila now. She’ll either make it off of the planet safe but alone, or the Empire will be taking her back in chains. 

But she’s not going to go quietly. Clone troopers swarm the base and the few remaining rebels fire volleys of stun bolts. Padmé ducks behind a piece of debris, cobalt blue blasts hitting the ground in front of it. 

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath of smoky air. She’s been shot before. She can handle this. Padmé peeks over her barricade. 

Lines of clone troopers surround their base. Their armour is plain white, with the captains and commanders marked in bright blue. Their white plastoid armour is different, though she can’t put her finger on what it is that’s about changed them. 

No matter, she thinks, firing another stun bolt over the barricade. It’s a piece of abandoned concrete, moved into place before she even made the broadcast. They thought best to prepare for every contingency. They weren’t supposed to be able to find them. That was the entire point of coming to Chandrila. It had the infrastructure to encrypt her message, hide its location, but it didn’t. And now, bodies of rebels and technicians scatter the ground like a child’s playthings.

Padmé presses herself against her barricade. It’s the only shelter she has for now, but soon it’ll be ripped apart by blaster bolts. The other side is already pockmarked with them. She glances back at the other rebels and frowns. There has to be some way that she can help them.

If she can get them to the hangar, then they can escape. Padmé is skilled enough to distract the clones until the rebels are in hyperspace. Then, she can surrender. 

And though she's prepared to die, she’s going to try to avoid it to the best of her ability. Even captured, she has some use to the Rebellion. Death won't be any good for anyone. Padmé drowns out the high-pitched scream of blaster bolts as they head past her. Her base has crumbled in front of her. The front door is in plain view of the troopers. Going there will kill her, and then she won’t even be able to use her life as a bargaining chip. 

The hangar is on the other side of the facility. She can get to the inner workings of the facility there, open the doors for the Rebels currently pinned down by the Empire, and then she can surrender. There must be something she can offer for Luke and Leia, for their survival. 

The Rebellion will be fine without her. She’s played her part. Though she does not want to die, she isn’t scared of it. Anakin will be waiting for her if she does. The twins will be waiting for her if she doesn’t. 

Padmé crouches against the barricade and scoots her way right, towards a pile of collapsed brick and wire. Against the scream of the blaster bolts and the dying rebels, she can’t hear her own breath. 

There’s a lull in the shots and Padmé sprints for the pile. The clones notice her a second too late and a smattering of shots hits the ground behind her. She slides the last few metres towards Her knees skid against the concrete, tearing tiny holes in her pants, but she doesn’t have time to react. Padmé peeks her head up and fires a volley of stun shots at the same time the other rebels do.

Then she sees it.

A branch, thick and sturdy, a blanket of moss hanging over it, just above the first line of troopers. It’ll be heavy enough to knock them off balance and light enough to keep them alive.

Padmé sets her blaster to kill.

Her own heart rate rings in her ears like a war drum, and she takes a deep breath. Though she has never been one for religion, she prays to anything that will listen. She prays for Anakin to help her.

Before she can think any harder about it, she points her blaster at the edge of the branch and fires three times. The barrel of her blaster burns, and one of the clone’s shots graze her arm, but she hits the branch. It sways, and with each shot it droops lower and lower. It teeters, and then it drops.

The second it falls, Padmé is running. She stumbles getting up off the ground but when she gains her balance she pushes herself— hard. She hits the ground, her footsteps loud, and curves around the side of the building. She vaults over one of the fallen trees— though not without protest from her legs — and stumbles into the landing pad. Shots fly past her and Padmé flinches backwards. The landing pad is large, but the hangar is still hundreds of feet away, and she keeps running.

Padmé keeps herself close to the the building and it shields her. She slows for a second. There are no clones here. No Imperials. But the Star Destroyer still looms above her like death over a battlefield. 

“Force save me,” she murmurs, giving herself no time to recover from her sprint. Every second she wastes is another rebel dead. Her blaster hot in her hand, Padmé runs towards the hangar. She’s done stunts like this during the war, but not since she had Luke and Leia. Her last moment of action was the break-in at Stygeon Prime, though that feels like it was years ago already. Her body aches. The air burns her throat as she inhales. 

She almost misses the footsteps. 

Over the sound of screams and the whir of TIE fighters overhead, the steady footsteps following her and the mechanical breathing is easy to ignore. And she almost does.

Acting more on instinct and less on logic, Padmé wraps her fingers around her blaster and shoots in the same second she turns.

The figure deflects it with a twist of their lightsaber. The red light illuminates the curves of his helmet, shaped like a skull and made of thick plastoid armour. He looks like the life has been leached out of him, moving with slow, halting steps. 

Padmé keeps the blaster pointed at him. She's seen footage of him, watched him cut through his enemies like they were nothing but droids.

Over the past few months, the Rebellion has gathered as much footage as possible of him and Sidious. They still do not know his origins, nor his identity. But in every piece of footage, Vader moves like an animal hunting, a dog obeying its master. The Force made form, someone who rips and tears without discrimination. 

Now, he is silent. Only her own breathing and Vader’s mechanical hiss fills the air, the noise of nearby shots fading into the background. Padmé's heart thumps in her chest. With him there will be no mercy, no bargaining. 

But she’ll still try.

“What do you want?” Padmé says, projecting her voice as if she were giving a speech. Vader shuts off his lightsaber, clips it to his belt, and stares blankly at her. His face is obscured by his helmet. His body is still. There's nothing for Padmé to read, not even a slight twitch. 

Padmé narrows her eyes and dredges up every ounce of willpower she has. “What do you want?”

He sways on his feet. The sunlight hits him and he looks like polished glass. She steps away from him, keeping her blaster levied at his chest. Any shot she makes will most likely be deflected, but she will not go easy. She can't.

Vader raises both hands to the side of his helmet. There's a low hiss as the air escapes from the seal, and then he pulls it off and lets it drop to the ground. 

The world goes still.

In her dreams, Vader would hunt her. Through space and through the desert and through the forest, he followed her, always walking, always inevitable. When he found her she would be bruised and sobbing and weak, and he would take off his helmet and nothing but smoke would appear. He was a ghoul, a demon, something dead, something wrong. She always died screaming, and Vader did not even have a face to hate.

Here, he does, and here, she wishes he was smoke, because the man in front of her is supposed to be dead.

“Padmé,” he whispers. He says her name like absolution. 

And though she knows this is Vader, she cannot stop herself from running to him. She stumbles towards him and he meets her in the middle. Padmé collapses into his arms, and he catches her, wrapping her in his arms the same way he always used to, the same way he did when she told him of her pregnancy. He smells like smoke and she buries her face in his chest, ignoring the hard planes of his armoured chest plate. 

“Padmé,” he says into her hair. Padmé rocks into him, clutching him to her like he'll disappear if she lets go. 

“I thought you were dead,” she sobs. He was here. He was real, concrete under her fingertips, steady against her shaking form.

His throat bobs, and hoarsely, he whispers, “I know.”

Padmé clicks her blaster onto her hip— though it’s more of an afterthought— and draws away from his chest. She reaches up and holds his head between her hands, stroking his cheek with her thumb. His face is sharper, more angular, skin pale and eyes underscored by bags. It is as if the colour has been drained from his skin. But he has the same defined chin and the same brown hair, the same tired eyes. 

To her, Anakin is still beautiful.

He presses his lips to hers, and Padmé leans into him. He’s here. He’s alive. In the glory of it all, of his survival, the rebellion and the battle fall out of existence. In this moment, she's content to let everything else out fade away. He's alive, and he came back for her.

“Are you okay?” Anakin murmurs against her cheek. Her mind skips over Luke and Leia and the Rebellion and the deep-seated ache in her bones, and instead, she nods. He’s here. They can make everything right now. 

Padmé tucks her head into the space under his chin. She’s tried her best to be strong for the Rebellion, to hold in her tears, and now they fall from her eyes like a torrent. He clutches her, hands rubbing her back as she presses her face into his chest.

She balls her fists in his robes. Her ear is pressed against his chest, his heartbeat in her ear. It’s steady and calm, and Anakin rocks back and forth. They collapse into one another. Padmé’s heart pounds in her chest. Anakin’s breathing is laboured, his chest shaking beneath her head. Padmé closes her eyes and blocks out the noise, letting herself exist only in this moment. He's here.

She spent months thinking he was dead, months spent mourning him, and he stands in front of her, unharmed and beautiful and here. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into her hair, his voice carrying months of grief. Padmé presses her lips into a thin line, her chin quivering as she tries not to cry more, and she shakes her head. She draws herself up and places a trembling hand on his cheek. “It’s not your fault.”

“I should’ve known,” he says, voice cracking. Anakin’s eyes are dark. “I should’ve done something.”

“It’s not your fault,” she twists a lock of his hair in her hand— darker now, she notices— and he leans into her touch. How long has he been in that suit? His skin is sallow and pale, and while she could chalk it up to stress and too much time on starships, the helmet certainly won’t help him. He seems hollowed out. He must've spent months thinking she was dead, alone, with no one but Sidious to talk to. 

But now they’re together, and now they can find Ahsoka and Rex and Obi-Wan and the twins— their twins, that Anakin doesn’t even know about. She opens her mouth, tongue honeyed with stories of Leia’s budding intellect and her brother’s growing compassion, but they die as another scream pierces the air. A rebel. 

Shit. The hangar, the clones, the Rebellion—

“Come on,” she says, tugging at her husband’s black robes, wiping her nose in the same breath, “I have so much to tell you. But we need to go.” 

“What?”

She sighs. Where to begin? He had to have seen the broadcast— otherwise, he wouldn’t be here— but how much did he know, and how much did she have time to tell him? Padmé glances at the floor, mind spinning out dozens of webs of possibilities before she settles on one. Her breath shudders in her chest, and she sets her hands on his shoulders. 

“The Empire will find us if we stay any longer. If we get to the hangar, we can get everyone else onto a ship and then we can escape and I’ll tell you everything then, we just have to leave before anyone finds us here.”

Anakin’s face flickers. She knows that look. When he’s fixing things, mostly droids, his eyebrows furrow and he frowns ever so slightly. It’s the face he gets when he’s thinking, when he’s on the battlefield, and now. His breath hitches in his throat and he smiles at her, though his eyes are scared.

“Padmé. . .” He says, voice cracking slightly. The wind whispers through the landing pad, chilling Padmé to her bones.

She presses her lips together. They don’t have time to argue. “What?” 

“We don’t have to go.”

Anakin says it softly but it still hits her like a punch. They won’t be safe unless they leave, and they don’t have time to argue. Padmé’s hands fall from his shoulders. 

“Ahsoka is alive, Rex is alive, you’re here and I-I can keep us safe. We don’t have to run. We’ll be okay,” he says, a smile flickering over his lips. He takes a deep breath and places a hand on her cheek, turning her face to his. Dark blue eyes bore into hers, and, like a promise, he whispers, “I’ll make sure we’re okay.”

“Anakin. . .” she says, but his name doesn’t fit on her tongue anymore. For a moment, when she was revelling in his survival, in the feeling of his lips on hers, she’d forgotten his helmet and his lightsaber and his name. His new name. 

There has to be an explanation. Anakin has always stood for justice, for peace, he’s a Jedi, for Force’s sake— 

“Please. I don’t want to lose you, and we’re safe like this. We don’t have to spend our lives on the run or wondering if we’re going to see tomorrow— we can be together.”

Together? There’s no joy in being together if they live under Sidious, scared to breathe wrong or say the wrong thing and suffer for it. Sidious broke the Republic. He’ll break them too. He has to know that. Still, the words coming out of her husband's mouth don't seem like his. 

“With Sidious?” she asks. Anakin sighs. His hands travel down her arms to grasp her trembling hands in his. His pulse is steady.

“It’ll be worth it, Padmé, please—”

She laughs, though the sound is humourless. “What about the Empire? You want to let it stand?”

“We can fix it —”

“Fix it? It’s not broken. It’s operating exactly how it was designed to be— Anakin, Palpatine is evil.”

“I know!” Anakin says, his voice cutting through the noise of the battlefield and the cries of the rebels nearby. Padmé’s breath sticks in her throat, and, for once, she’s speechless. She’s always been able to read him, and in turn, he had been able to read her, but the person standing in front of her is speaking about the Empire like it’s a nuisance, like overturning it is an option, like people’s lives are a game you can choose to play. It's not someone she recognizes.

“Then listen to me.” she says, summoning every piece of willpower she had to keep her voice from wavering. Anakin is logical. He’ll listen to her, the way he always has, and she won’t have to lose him again “With you a-and Ahsoka, we can deal with Sidious, and the Jedi and the Republic can be restored, and it’ll be how everything was meant to be. Please, we can talk about this later, we just need to get out now, we can work this out later.”

She has never been one to beg, but now she finds herself grasping at his forearms, falling a few steps short of kneeling before him and begging for him to listen to her. Anakin— the Anakin she knows, is intelligent, caring, and he loves her. That’s enough. It has to be enough. 

But instead, when she speaks of the Jedi, Anakin jerks back. His breathing grows faster, and he looks into her eyes, and Padmé wants to run, wants to shrink back, because this isn’t Anakin, this isn’t right, this isn’t how things were supposed to be, and then he says, “Maybe the time of the Jedi is over. We have the chance to start over, without their flaws. We can make something better, and we can do it together.”

And Padmé chokes. She’s heard one other person talk like that before. She’d watched him on Tatooine while Luke and Leia laid sleeping, Obi-Wan and her rapt in from of the hologram as Sidious made his first proclamation as the Emperor. 

He spoke of corruption within the Jedi and Padmé had laughed because there was no way any rational person would believe Sidious when he called the Jedi monsters. She had laughed while he lied. 

But Anakin has been listening to Sidious for months. Padmé freezes, searching his face for any sign of regret or guilt. Anything to show that he didn't really believe what he was saying. Anything to show that there was a chance for him.

“You sound like Sidious,” she says, taking a step back from him. 

“Maybe he’s right,” Anakin says, walking closer. There’s nowhere for her to go— the landing pad is wide and open and the ground is solid duracrete. Running to the hangar will trap her, and she knows that Anakin wouldn’t hurt her, but this isn’t Anakin anymore. 

He chose to be Vader, didn’t he?

There has to be another explanation for why he has that mask, why he had that lightsaber. There has to be. Padmé will not believe that the man she saw risking his life for others would fall so deeply. But she’d been swayed by Sidious once, and she was a politician; she was supposed to be wary of that. Anakin had known Sidious since he was a child, and he’s spent the last few months with the Emperor. He’s had plenty of time to poison his mind. 

But Padmé still sees Anakin in there, and for her, that’s enough. If there’s a chance of him coming back to her, that’s enough. 

“Anakin, he’s killed thousands,” she says calmly. Lay out your case. Be clear. Use emotion. Use logic. She’s been debating since she was a child and Anakin was a only a slave on Tatooine, and she knows she’s right. She just has to get through to him. 

“I know.” he says and the words are golden to her ears until he continues, “But it doesn’t mean he’s wrong about everything. The. . . the galaxy listened to him. They agree with him. He’s wrong, he’s evil, but maybe he was right about the Jedi.”

Obi-Wan’s name hangs on her lips, and Padmé wants to tell him the truth, but at the mere thought of it there’s a hard yank behind her navel. She can explain everything to him later when they’re on Dantooine, safe and together and calm. 

She just has to get him there first. So she takes a deep breath and, despite her instincts telling her to run, steps towards him and sets her hands on each side of his head. He leans into her touch, and Padmé takes a shuddering breath. She tries not to yell.

“Anakin. Listen to me. We have a family now.” She says, though she buries her memories of Luke and Leia. There’s something pushing at her, something that makes her keep their names from them. “It’s not just you and me. Come with me and we can make this better, we can be happy.”

“I’m trying to fix it, you’re just not listening,” Anakin pulls back from her, grabbing her wrists in his hands. Padmé scrunches up her nose and rips her hands away from him, her frustration bubbling up within her like boiling water. 

“Because you’re going against everything! Everything we’ve fought for, everything we believed during the war, and you’re willing to abandon it within seconds?” she rages, not caring who can hear her. He has to come back to her. She won’t lose him, not again, but he isn’t listening. He doesn’t want to. So she has to be better. 

“For you?” he murmurs.“Without a thought.”

_ Oh. _

“Come with me, and we can be safe. We can make things how we want them to be and we won’t have to risk our lives to do it. We’ll be safe.”

“How we want them to be?” she repeats. Anakin is still, silent, and in her mind, Padmé is on the field in Naboo.

Anakin, his padawan braid hanging down his shoulder, smiled at her.  _ If it works _ he said, and Padmé laughed. She should have seen it then, but she thought it was a joke. No Jedi would defend a dictatorship, no good man, and Anakin had to be a good man. 

“We’d be slaves,” she says. Her voice is barely more than a whimper at this point. Anakin narrows his eyes and turns for a moment before he looks back at her.

“I don’t care.”

The world goes still, and Padmé chokes. 

“I don’t care. I can’t lose you, Padmé.”

And in that moment, everything hits her, and Padmé’s tears run dry. This isn’t Anakin. This is Vader. This is the man that rips and tears and chokes and kills for nothing but power, who would listen to Sidious if he told him to chop off his own hand. He smiles like Anakin and talks like Anakin but the darkness in his eyes is someone— something— else entirely. He’d rip the world if it meant she was with him. It’s an all-consuming love, one she can’t possibly excuse. This isn't the man she knows.

And when he looks at her, she only sees the people he’s killed. Padmé wraps her arms around herself and steps back, “What have you done?”

“Padmé—”

“You wear a mask. You carry the name of a— of a  _ Sith _ . You’re Sidious’ dog.”

His upper lip curls. His chest heaves and the air around them is wrong. It’s suffocating her. But Anakin— Vader— continues and with every word, her memory of Anakin dies a little bit more.

“I thought you were dead. I wanted Sidious to die for what he did to you, but you’re here. It’ll be okay now,” he says. Padmé scoffs. 

“What about the Republic? The people he slaughtered? What about justice?” she says. Vader has to know about the people that have died because of the Sidious, the people whose deaths he was complicit in. No one is that blind. But instead, Vader’s eyes darken, and they look wrong.

They look yellow.

“It was about justice for you—”

“I meant, for the Jedi,” she spits. He has to feel some kind of loyalty towards them. They raised him. They took him in as a child. But Vader only raises his chin and narrows his molten yellow eyes.

Come back to me , she prays, to any god that would listen. 

“They were weak. They let themselves be led into a war and then they died. The time of the Jedi is over," Vader says, raising his chin. Padmé takes another tentative step backwards. 

Vader stands still on the landing pad, the sun hanging behind his head. He seems to glow, like a god, like the Force given form, like something divine and bloody. And Padmé presses her lips together and shoves everything down until all she feels is an overwhelming sense of nothingness. 

“I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” she says.

He has to be in there somewhere. Anakin has to be there. He wouldn’t leave her. Not willingly. Not like this.

“Anakin. Please. You’re breaking my heart. You’re going down a path I can’t follow,” Padmé's voice is ripped raw, every word like sandpaper on her tongue. 

“I can keep us safe.”

“I don’t know you anymore,” she says. Because the person in front of her is someone different than the man she loved. Loves. Hiding beneath the surface the entire time, but someone different. Someone she can’t love. Someone who would ruin the world for her, who would sit by as Sidious turned the galaxy into slaves as long as she was safe.

“Padmé, I love you,” Anakin says, stepping closer to her. Padmé is struck silent, letting him move closer and closer until he wraps his arms around her, and she can feel his heartbeat in his chest. 

Her skin prickles where she touches her, and though her eyes are dry, Padmé feels Anakin’s loss as keenly as she would a limb. Her arm drops to her sides, and while Vader has his arms around her, trying to get her to stay, Padmé sets her blaster to stun and fires into his chest. It's a simple shot, straight up through the gap between his armour and his robes. 

He flinches backwards and his hands clutch at her hair before he passes into unconsciousness, swaying backwards. She catches him as he passes out, lowering him to the ground tenderly. She stands straight. Padmé trembles, clicking her blaster back into its holster. Limbs splayed out, head leaned to the side, he looks peaceful. She could bring him back to Dantooine. It would be okay there, and they'd have time. He'd listen to her.

And then she remembers how he had looked when he spoke of the Jedi, the conviction in his in voice when he asked her to come with him. The holograms where he tore through dissenters like paper.

Anakin is gone, and the man in front of her is only wearing his skin. Padmé takes in a shaky gulp of air and glances towards the hangar, where the Rebellion's ships wait for her. She looks back at him.

Despite herself, despite knowing this is Vader, she moves to his side and kneels next to him. She brushes his hair out of his eyes and presses a kiss to his forehead.

Quietly, so that no one but her can hear it, she says, “I love you.” 

It feels like absolution.

* * *

“You lied to me,” Anakin does not care whether or not Sidious is alone. He storms into the man’s quarters, where he sits at the head of a long dinner table. Anakin lets his helmet drop to the ground and doesn’t bother pushing down any of the rage inside of him.

Padmé had left, and Sidious had lied to him. He let him believe Padmé was dead, that their child was dead, had been content to let Anakin wallow in his anger and his grief all because it served Sidious, because it made Anakin a better weapon. The Jedi hadn’t wanted attachments; why would Sidious? He wanted him free so he could twist Anakin into whatever he needed. He’s no better than a slaver. He never has been. 

Sidious glances up from his plate, raising an eyebrow.“Lord Vader?” 

Anakin clamps down on the words bubbling from his mouth. They’re vicious, cruel, and much less effective than just running his lightsaber through Sidious. It’d be easy. The man is pale, hunched over, caught unexpected, and even if Anakin died in the process, it wouldn’t matter, as long as Sidious was left for the rats.

“You told me Padmé was dead.” 

Sidious pushes himself out of his seat, meandering over to the side of the table. Anakin’s steps are heavy, echoing through the air like shots, his anger flooding out of him and filling the room like smoke. It whips itself into a storm and Anakin lets it. There’s no point in trying to control it anymore. The Jedi are dead. Anakin has lost Padmé. What does it matter if he loses himself? 

The evening light floods the room. Everything looks like it’s been drenched in gold. Statues line the side of the room, looking like soldiers. 

“You said you found her body,” he says.

Sidious lies, Sidious always lies, but Sidious told him she was dead. Sidious let him believe it, let him think that the one person he needed most was gone, and Anakin does not care what he has to do to kill Sidious for it.

He hits hard, activating his saber and then striking just a few milliseconds later. Sidious meets him within a heartbeat, twisting his own blood red blade around Anakin’s and then flicking it away. Anakin swings and hits dead air.

Sidious, surprisingly nimble for such an old man, flits around the room. He only smiles as he begins a barrage of hits, all of them quick yet devastating. Anakin parries, falling back on the old Soresu Obi-Wan taught him, and waits. He lets Sidious strike first, and he watches the man’s body before he hits, the slight tensing in his muscles before he moves.

He meets Sidious halfway through the next strike and leans his full weight into countering it. His master merely catches it, and when the two of them have their sabers locked, Sidious smiles. 

A sudden burst of strength from the small man and Anakin stumbles backwards. He lands on his back, hard, and rolls to the side just as Sidious jabs at the ground where Anakin laid a breath earlier. Pushing himself up, Anakin tries to draw on the Force, but the familiar light only scalds him now, and he grabs for something stronger, something darker. 

It fills his veins with adrenaline and Anakin is shakier, but faster, and that’s what he needs right now. Sidious’ blows come the second he’s back on his feet. They glance off of Anakin’s raised lightsaber. 

Sidious pushes him back with a barrage of hits until Anakin has to vault over the table with a hand just to put distance between the two. He lands hard, stumbling to a stop, lightsaber still in hand. The kyber crystal pulses, feeding off of Anakin’s anger, and he straightens and turns towards Sidious. Across the table, Sidious curls his lip, his chest heaving and his eyes acid yellow. “Insolent boy.”

Inside of him something rears its head, dark and nebulous and whispering, and Anakin takes hold of it like a whip, raising his one flesh hand at Sidious. It’s instinctive, easy as breathing. 

Power courses from his heart to his fingertips, dark lightning blossoming from them, streaming straight towards Sidious. The Sith raises his lightsaber and catches it, cackling as Anakin draws on the rage boiling inside of him. Sidious had known she lived, and he lied to him. 

It burns his skin from the inside and rips through him like static, but the rush of power it brings is intoxicating. White flashes across his vision, fingers growing hot, and Anakin feeds the lightning. Sidious presses his full weight into countering Anakin, and Anakin pushes harder. 

This man had lied to him, used him, manipulated him, and Anakin had let him. And he had ruined himself, letting his morals slip away, for nothing. Padmé is alive.

The lightning leaves him and Anakin is left empty. His arm spasms, sending painful shocks through his muscles. He collapses, barely having enough time to deactivate his lightsaber. What was that?

_ Sith lightning. _

Anakin coughs. He feels stripped, empty within the embrace of the Force. Face pressed against the cold marble of the dining room floor, Anakin closes his eyes and prepares himself for the final blow. 

Instead, when his master reaches Ankain, Sidious kneels down. “Get up, Anakin.”

It hurts to breathe. His ribs feel shattered, and it seems like he’s going to throw up, but then Sidious grabs his arm and yanks Anakin to his feet.

He’s surprisingly strong for such a frail man. Anakin stumbles as he tries to regain his balance. Half his face is still cold from the floor. It seems like the world is spinning. Sidious stares at him, his expression inscrutable, as usual, and then he motions at the single seat near the foot of the table.

“Eat.”

“W-what?” Anakin murmurs. His words feel. . .  _ messy.  _ Unformed. Vowels too sharp, consonants slurred, like they don’t fit in his mouth. 

“You interrupted my dinner,” Sidious says plainly. Anakin glances around the room, and though his vision shakes he can see the food piled on the table. Piles of rolls are knocked over from where Anakin jumped over it, but other than that it still looks like an Emperor’s meal.

Sidious glides over the floor and back to his seat. As if he had never fought with Anakin, as if he’d never deflected Sith lightning, he sits down and picks up his fork and knife. With a paper-white hand, he motions across the table. “Sit.”

Anakin pulls out the chair nearest to him and lowers himself into it. His muscles shake as he does. The lightning’s aftershocks still dance through him. Anakin breathes.

The air smells of sulfur. Just like it did whenever Anakin was punished by Sidious, except this time Anakin’s pain comes from himself. Lightning is only able to be used by Sith, and Anakin isn’t a Jedi anymore but he hasn’t fallen. He won’t. Falling would make him like Sidious, and the thought is too much to bear for more than a moment. He has to be doing the right thing. He has to be good. 

He’s shaky. His rage cools, leaving freezing power rushing over him. The Force curls around him, not from his manipulation, but of its own will. Sidious waves a hand and one of the statues on the wall turns and bends. A droid.

It scrambles out of the room, leaving the two of them to sit and stare at each other. Sidious cuts his food carefully. 

The droid rushes back in with a plate full of food and drops it in front of Anakin, speaking too fast for him to understand. Still, he thanks the droid before it scurries back to the wall. It folds its arms and it looks like a statue again.

At least the food looks half-way decent. Diced vegetables, glazed with something faintly sweet, lay beside a thick chop of some kind of meat. Anakin straightens himself out, trying to stop his hands from shaking as he picks up the fork and knife and begins hacking away at the meat.

He has food like this available in his own quarters, but by dinner he’s always too exhausted to eat anything other than a ration bar before slipping off to bed. Most of the time, his dinner is spent sitting across from Luke and Leia, feeding them each spoonfuls of pureed baby food. Sometimes he got the cooks to make some kind of soft, mashed vegetable for them, which Leia enjoyed but Luke hated.

A meal like this is rare. Anakin pokes the first vegetable with his fork, staring at it for a few seconds too long. Sidious is quiet at the other end of the table, and Anakin tries his best to ignore him. The sooner this is over and he can go slink away and lick his wounds, the better. There, he can figure out how to deal with Sidious and how to find Padmé. 

He bites into the vegetable. It’s earthy and slightly mushy, but leagues better than the ration bars. Anakin tries to be as respectful and as calm as he can, though his limbs still shake. It doesn’t taste poisoned. Besides, Sidious has more creative ways to kill him than poison.

Sidious had spared him. Why? Anakin had tried to kill him, and from everything he’s seen from his master before, he’s not the type of man to spare someone, especially for something as serious as attempted murder. Yet he sits at Sidious’ table, eating his food. 

The Emperor sets down his cutlery. “You spoke with Bail Organa?”

Anakin’s grip on his fork falters. He swallows before he responds to him. “Yes, my master.”

“Did he speak to you about it?” Anakin asks. He’d done what he had to do, but Organa wouldn’t see it that way. Sidious must want him dead for his links to the Rebellion. For Anakin, Organa is his one tie to Padmé. 

He’d latched onto her Force signature as soon as he was above the planet, finding comfort in its familiar tones, but by the time he woke up on the planet she was gone. His chest still aches from the stun bolt. Anakin bites his lip, shoving down the anger that threatens to boil over inside of him.

He’d woken up on the landing pad and Padmé was gone. None of the clones found him, and he was able to shove on his helmet and stumble back to his ship, retreating like a wounded animal. Padmé had left hours earlier by then. 

Anakin bites his lip, trying not to think too much about her. She’d been stressed, scared, surely she hadn’t been thinking straight when she ran. She was just scared. She had to be.

“Did he tell you anything useful?” Sidious continues, tilting his head slightly. Anakin adjusts his grip on his fork. He hadn’t stopped to tell Sidious where he was going or why, though he assumed Sidious saw the broadcast. Everyone had. 

“Padmé’s location,” Anakin says softly. Sidious pauses. 

“Ah,” he mutters, smacking his lips together absently. “So Organa’s thrown his lot in with the rebels?”

“Are you surprised?” Anakin snorts, freezing after he speaks. Snarking at Sidious isn’t a good idea— probably never will be— especially after Anakin tried to kill him.

Yet Sidious laughs lightly and shakes his head. “Of course not, my boy. It’s just unexpected that a man of Organa’s intelligence would reveal something like that so readily.”

Anakin gives him an uneasy half smile. “It wasn’t exactly readily.”

Sidious glances at him, before he nods. The air is calm. It feels strange to be laughing and joking with the man he tried to kill moments before, with the man that hid his wife’s survival from him, the man he’s been trying to kill for the past eight months. But nothing has felt right since Order 66. 

This is just another one of those things.

“You didn’t find her.” Sidious says flatly. 

“No,” Anakin takes the first bite of the meat, and it’s surprisingly pleasant. Spiced well, not too chewy but not raw, and simple. Easy to swallow. He takes another bite as Sidious cocks his head to the side. He’s long since finished his meal.

“I suppose you have questions.”

Anakin bites his tongue. Sarcasm won’t do him any good right now. He just needs a moment to think, to figure out what he’s supposed to do. If he plays nice with his master, he can leave and he’ll be free to make a new plan.

“You said she was dead,” Anakin speaks low, keeping his voice as steady as he can. The words burn his throat. He should’ve known she was alive, and then he could’ve done something, protected her, and everything would’ve been okay, if only for a moment.

“You must understand, my boy, that I did not want this to happen. I thought the Jedi may come for her, so I sent two of my finest soldiers to her apartment. When they didn’t come back, I sent a platoon. They said they found the clones’ bodies and hers,” Sidious leans back in his seat and Anakin swallows the last piece of his meal. 

“There was a funeral,” Anakin says. Closed casket. They said she wasn’t identifiable. “They said it was hers.”

“We ran tests. They said it was,” Sidious blows a long breath out through his nose.

Anakin stares down at his plate. Sidious had to know it wasn’t her. In all the years Anakin has known him, he has never been careless, and he won’t start now, not when he has his Empire in his grasp and the ability to shape the galaxy to fit his whims. He’s lying.

But the Force confirms his story. 

He bites the side of his cheek until he draws blood. The Force says Sidious is telling the truth. 

“If I had known, I would’ve allowed you to go after her.”

Anakin wants to say that if he knew Padmé lived, Anakin wouldn’t have waited for permission. He wouldn’t have joined Sidious in the first place, but he keeps chewing on his meal. He blinks— hard. All of his planning for nothing. Padmé was alive. And he lost everything for nothing. 

But now he has an in with Sidious, and a way to protect her. It’ll be a welcome trade-off if she’s safe. He will not allow her to die, and as long as Anakin is still serving Sidious, he can keep her safe. They’ll find Ahsoka, and they can be a family again. 

Padmé said they had a family. 

“She’s sided with the Jedi,” Sidious says softly, tone full of care and warmth that is so uncharacteristic of the man that Anakin is thrown back to the days of the Republic, when the Chancellor would invite him into his officer for tea and Anakin, padawan braid still laying on his shoulder, would take it without second thought.

A droid whirs into the room, carrying two plates. Its head lolls as it moves, joints creaking as it twists and turns all the way to the table. It sets down Anakin’s plate, albeit a bit messily, and then Sidious’ before it speeds away, groaning all the while.

Anakin stares at the tiny cake in front of him. It has smooth pink frosting and a little leaf on the top, probably some kind of accent that Anakin’s seen in the higher class restaurants.

Sidious looks at Anakin, eyes no longer yellow, and sighs. “I imagine the Jedi wanted us to think she was dead.”

“The Jedi are gone.”

“Not all of them,” Sidious raises an eyebrow, “There are always stragglers. For now, they’ve coerced Padmé to their side.”

He cuts a small piece of his dessert and eats it. Anakin waits until Sidious has swallowed before he cuts his own tiny piece. It’s sweet. Good, too. 

As he chews, he tries to think of the Jedi. He doesn’t regret what he told Padmé on Chandrila. The time of the Jedi is over. They’ve protected the galaxy for eons but now they’re gone, and Anakin doubts they’ll be able to come back. 

He doesn’t remember half of the conversation with Padmé. Delirious with joy, he’d simply rambled until she stopped him, but he knows his intentions were true. The Jedi do not have a place in this new galaxy. They’d created their own downfall, led themselves into Sidious’ trap, and now they have Padmé. 

The final few Jedi must be helping the Rebellion. Unduli, Ahsoka, even the padawans he helped escape Order 66, have to be working with Padmé. They’ll know where she is. If he finds them first. . . 

“I think it’s best if you look for her,” Sidious says, cutting through Anakin’s thoughts. He jerks up to face his master.

Sidious is idle, the large windows behind him letting in the evening light. The sun has almost set, and the Emperor’s quarters sit high in the Temple, above most of Imperial Centre’s traffic. It almost seems simple. 

Anakin shifts in his plush seat, trying to quiet his mind. Padmé is alive. He cannot let her die. If he defects, Sidious will kill her. If he stays, he’ll be under Sidious’ control until the man’s death. 

It’s preferable to living without her. She mentioned a family, and Anakin doesn’t want to entertain the possibility of their child’s survival out of fear, but he tells himself that they can be together and that will be enough. They’ll be safe, and that’ll be enough. He can let go of his hatred for Sidious, his anger towards the Empire, if it means she’s there.

“My boy?”

“I need to go after her.”

Sidious lets out a long breath through his nose and leans back in his chair. Anakin draws on the teachings Obi-Wan gave him, and lets the Force flood through his senses. It swirls around him, light and heavy at the same time, two sides pulling him towards themselves. He frowns, and spreads out, letting his power settle through him. He taps around the room, feeling the sharp fear coming from the servants in the kitchens and the deep seated boredom of the clones outside. Boiling hot rage hits him as Anakin draws up against Sidious. The slightest brush and Anakin recoils back into his own mind. What the fuck is he doing? He found Padmé. 

He pushes himself up, palms flat on the table. The mahogany chair screeches as it drags across the ground. 

There’s no negotiating with Sidious. Anakin knows what he has to do and he isn’t letting go of it this time. He’ll get Padmé, serve Sidious, but he won’t forget why he’s doing it. For Padmé. Always for her. Never for Sidious, and never for himself. 

Sidious narrows his eyes and Anakin holds his gaze. “When I find Padmé, the Rebellion will lose one of its leaders.”

_ And she’ll be there. With me. _

Sidious cocks his head to the side, slowly rising out of his chair. Anakin stares at him. This is not his grandfather, not his mentor, not his friend, it is the man who has taken everything from Anakin. 

So he’ll do the same to Sidious. 

“Go.”

Anakin turns away from him. Helmet in his hands, the Force whipping itself into a fervor around him, he holds onto the anger inside of him and pulls it in, letting it sink into his heart.

“Lord Vader?” Sidious calls just as Anakin reaches the door. “Your reaction today was understandable, but not acceptable. Next time, I will not be merciful.”

Anakin glances backwards and nods just as he slams his helmet back over his head. 

“We’ll work on the lightning another day, my boy,” Sidious calls as the door shuts behind Anakin.

* * *

It seems as though he can’t breathe without sensing Sidious’ presence, so he retreats deeper and deeper into the Temple until he’s wandering a floor so old it has stairs instead of a turbolift. The air there is thick with dust, the weight of the floors above it distorting the ceiling and making it seem like the world is going to cave in on him.

He paces the hallways, brushing his fingers along the painted walls. Lightning still seems to buzz through them, and when he checked the skin of his fingertips he found cracked, bright red skin that hurt to touch. Anakin has recovered from the dinner from Sidious, and the ache in his chest is beginning to subside, but his anger seems to have settled into his bones. He wants to cut through something, someone, just to burn it out of himself.

Once, he had been a Jedi. What is he now? Not a Sith, but now, the light does not come when he calls for it, only that dark, oily side of the Force that whispered of power, that fed off of his anger and passion, the side that left him feeling empty without it. Giving it a name would only give it power, so Anakin is content to leave it without one. 

The paintings on this level of the Temple are simpler, not the murals he found on one of the upper floors. They’re decorative. All of them are landscapes, of Alderaan’s mountains and the deep dark seas of Glee Anselm. There are people, but their faces are obscured and they themselves are few and far between.

Anakin places his palm on one of them, of a planet covered in lakes and green grass, giant flea-like beasts wandering the fields, and breathes. Before he reaches into the Force, there’s a moment of hesitation. Dwelling on the past will do him no good, especially like this. What does he gain from it? Only empty nostalgia and homesickness for a place he never truly belonged.

But he still dips himself into the Force. The energy is thick here, like a fog, and it’s easy to pull the threads apart and find the Force echoes of the Jedi who painted this.

They’re only a padawan, long hair drawn back into a simple bun at the base of their neck. With a careful, practiced hand, they trace out the shape of waterfalls in dark blue paint. A thick datapad lays next to them. They glance at it every few seconds, but Anakin can almost feel them drawing on their own memories of the place. Of Naboo.

He lets his hand drop and steps backwards, looking at the painting in full. It’s not the same field he saw on Naboo with Padmé. Yet it feels familiar, like a home that doesn’t really exist, tugging at his very being. Anakin swallows, throat dry, and moves away from it. It beckons to him in a way that no longer feel natural, like a predator beckoning its prey.

This level of the Temple is older than Yoda. Anakin can feel its age pressing down around him, the Jedi it kept within its walls watching him as he moves through it, like his mere presence desecrates it. 

He tries to draw a deep breath but he can’t fill his lungs. The dark has permeated into every inch of the Temple. It’s impossible to outrun, following him even down here, where the Jedi should be strongest. 

Anakin stops in the hallway, wrapping his arms around himself and closing his eyes. The Force envelops him but it's only a few seconds before the dark comes rushing in, suffocating him. Anakin reaches deeper, trying to find those old Force echoes of the Jedi who came before, letting the Force run through him as if he were merely a vessel and not a person.

They meet him with some resistance, and Anakin can feel their judgement. They’re not all there, but the collective spirit of the Jedi hangs in the air around them. It pulls on him, and Anakin opens his eyes and follows their guidance forwards, left, right, up, left, left, left, right, forwards, right, left, and left until he reaches a dried up fountain. A cracked stone statue of a woman, her hands facing the sky, face serene, adorns the top of it. Water would have flowed out of her palms and down into the fountain, where Jedi younglings watched their reflections ripple in the water and Padawans practiced moving through lightsaber forms on the grass nearby. 

The Room of a Thousand Fountains. The  _ first  _ Room of a Thousand Fountains, before it was buried under a hundred other floors. The Force flows through here, thick and welcoming, and Anakin acts without thinking. He kneels on the floor, placing his unlit lightsaber in front of him and clicking off his helmet to set it aside. 

Taking a deep breath, he sets his palms on his knees and sinks into the Force like a rock dropped into water. Meditation has never come easily to him, but the Force draws him in and smothers him. Anakin can breathe, but he can’t feel where his skin begins and the Force ends. He spreads out through it, letting himself slowly drop shield after shield until the foundations of them are the only thing that remains. Sidious cannot find him here.

But the dark is still hovering near him, bursting under his skin and waiting for a moment to burst out and devour him whole. 

Anakin moves back into his mind, fingers trailing over the broken bonds in his mind. They’re cleanly severed, like a lightsaber cutting through flesh, not the frayed bond Obi-Wan described after Qui-Gon’s death. This is intentional, precise.

He tries to reach through the bond and towards Ahsoka, but meets dead air. Anakin pushes harder. If she’s not dead, then the bond should still be there. Even if she’s shielding, he should be able to feel her through it.

There’s nothing, and Anakin pulls back.

It was severed. Ahsoka lived at least long enough for Rex to have met her— and Anakin cringes, because he should probably give Rex another chance, but the dark thing inside him tells him that Rex almost let Ahsoka die, and it’s better for him to be on the Death Star, where he can’t fuck anything up— so she was alive when the bond was cut.

He had felt it break, hadn’t he? By the time Order 66 was over, they were both gone. He shielded the entire time, trying to block out the Force’s pain, and he had shoved his shields as far as they could go, and he had felt something snap.

It’s almost enough to yank him out of meditation, but Anakin holds onto the Force. 

He pushed his shields so far that he hadn’t felt the Force, and he felt something snap, and through all the pain and agony he felt through the Force he hadn’t felt his own despair at the bonds breaking suddenly and unexpectedly.

Anakin presses his lips together, and though he’s always held some secret hope that Obi-Wan survived, he allows it to bubble to the surface as he spreads through the Force. 

It’s amplified here, and Anakin knows Obi-Wan better than he knows himself. Skipping over the coiled mess of rage surrounding the Inquisitorius, not even touching Sidious or himself, Anakin spreads out as far as he can.

If Ahsoka can live, so can Obi-Wan.

He searches, stretching his mind farther than it ever has been. Distance isn’t the same with the Force— he’d been able to feel Obi-Wan’s panic on Mandalore when Duchess Kryze died, had felt him on Utapau when he fought Grievous. But that was with the help of their now broken bond, and Anakin isn’t sure he has it in himself to find his brother.

But then the Force lights up, like the first touch of summer on his fingers, warm sun washing over him, not scalding, but nurturing. For the first time in months, Anakin feels warm.

Obi-Wan.

His brother retracts within seconds, slamming up his shields, but Anakin can still feel the sunlight flooding his views. Pure light, undiluted and unsoiled by the dark— a light he hasn’t carried since he was young. 

Anakin pulls back into himself. He moves back to the Coruscant, and then back to the Temple, and he’s about to pour his power back into his own body when the Force blossoms, and he turns back to the source.

A mirror of his own power, alike in kind and in strength, though diminished. Carrying threads of his old brilliance, interwoven with Padmé’s strong will and her gentle love. Luke and Leia

His Luke and Leia.

Their power is the same as his. Leia feels like cold, like the bitter taste of iron, like the silence that only comes after the first snow. Luke is warm, firelight on Anakin’s skin, soothing and warming his sister. They mingle around one another, and, young though they are, Anakin can feel them stumbling around the Force.

They’re eight months old, as old as the Empire is, born a few days after Padmé would’ve told him, and when he reaches for them, they reach back. Their power is nascent but strong, and their minds poke at his. He latches onto them, as gentle as he can be, and loops their power to his, layering the bond with love and care and protection, until he can feel them hovering at the edges of his mind even when he lets go.

Anakin withdraws back into himself, pushing himself up the second he can move. After he raises his shields, he taps the edge of his new bonds with Luke and Leia to make sure he can still feel them. The bonds are weak, threads compared with the thick ropes he had with Ahsoka and Obi-Wan, but they’re there, and that’s all that matters.

Laughter bubbles up through his chest. Obi-Wan is alive, Ahsoka is alive, his children are alive, Padmé is alive, and Sidious has not hurt him in any way that matters. 

They can be a family again. Anakin can protect them. Even if it means living under Sidious, he can do it. He wanted to kill him because Anakin had nothing to lose, and now he has nothing to gain from it. If Sidious dies now, the galaxy tumbles into chaos, the Empire erupts into a power struggle, and he stands to lose everything again. If Sidious lives, Anakin can work through him, make the galaxy better, and he can do it without the constraints of the Senate.

He can do it with Padmé.

(Though he knows, deep down, that his wife, who has valued justice and democracy over her own wellbeing since she was a child, will not let the galaxy tumble into the tyranny he wants, he ignores it in favour of hope).

This is for the good of the galaxy. For the good of everyone. Obi-Wan will be there to watch his niece and nephew grow up, Ahsoka can finally come back to them, and he can have an actual family. Not one made up of secret trysts and glances from across the room, but one where they can be free. 

(Though he knows, deep down, that the Emperor, who has valued control and power over the rights of the galaxy since he was a young man, will not let them live without using them against Anakin, he ignores it in favour of hope).

Anakin breathes, calls his lightsaber and his helmet to him, and rushes down the hallways, following the Force to the exit. He barely thinks about where he’s going, only that he’ll have his family again soon. 

He moves up the stairs with ease, his joy propelling him. Obi-Wan is alive, Ahsoka is alive, Padmé is alive, and Sidious has not hurt him in a way that matters, and the bliss that comes from even thinking about their survival is enough to make him grin like a madman. 

The first turbolift is only a few floors away, and he skids into it just as the doors are closing. It’s slow, but the thoughts racing through his mind make everything else fade away, and before he knows it he’s standing on the top floor of the Temple.

Sidious’ dark presence doesn’t seem suffocating anymore— it’s familiar. When he reaches for the Force, the dark slips in around him and shares in his joy, leaving warmth humming through him. Anakin is buzzing, and he feels like he could swallow the world whole.

The dark isn’t oppressive anymore; it feels more like coming home. The worst part is, that doesn't scare him anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :')))
> 
> anakin snapped the bonds himself ! it's referenced in the first chapter, in this passage— 
> 
> "He slammed his shields back up, his body crying in relief as the pain receded, and took a shaky breath. He poured most of his remaining energy into just maintaining the shields, trying to keep them as strong as the Temple walls themselves but a faint thread of fearworrypainterrorpain still slithered through his mind. Anakin pushed his shields higher, suffocating any vestiges of the Force still remaining, and went numb as the constant stream of emotion stopped, and he was left with his own pit of fear and hate. Something snapped in him, but Anakin didn’t have the luxury of caring."
> 
> :') im running now bc i know im going to get threatened bc of this
> 
> POSTED 27/10/2020

**Author's Note:**

> author's note: this fic is returning to regular updates on **february 19th 2021** every friday at 12:45PM MST (UTC —7:00) or 2:45EST !!
> 
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